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TH  KKKCiH ,  M1BJBJI J»  AKJI3  >-'J  K  J^.l i« . 

;?..r.  VfASHINCiTON   STUKKT. 


THE 


OSTON    BOOK, 


BEING     SPECIMENS     OF 


METROPOLITAN  LITERATURE. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS. 

M  DC  CCL. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

TICKNOR,   REED,    AND    FIELDS, 
la  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

THURSTON,  TORRY    AND    COMPANY, 

31  Devonshire  Street. 


PREFACE. 


THE  first  volume  of  the  Boston  Book,  edited  by  Mr. 
Henry  T.  Tuckerman,  was  published  in  1836 ;  the  sec 
ond,  edited  by  Mr.  Benjamin  B.  Thatcher,  appeared  in 
1837;  and  the  third  and  last,  edited  by  Mr.  George  S. 
Hillard,  was  published  in  1841.  A  new  volume  having 
been  very  generally  called  for,  and  as  some  years  have 
elapsed  since  the  last  one  was  issued,  a  continuation  of 
the  series  is  deemed  desirable. 

Several  of  the  articles  here  published  are  now  printed 
for  the  first  time,  their  authors  kindly  furnishing  original 
contributions,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  The  productions 
of  many  well  known  writers,  whose  names  would  greatly 
enhance  the  value  of  any  publication,  the  limits  and  de 
sign  of  this  volume  compel  the  Editor  reluctantly  to  omit. 
At  some  future  time,  he  trusts,  a  more  extended  work 
may  allow  greater  justice  to  all  our  Boston  authors. 

NOVEMBER,  1849. 


248935 


CONTENTS. 


The  Old  Latin  School  House  . 
Boston  Church  Bells 
Drowne's  Wooden  Image 
The  Syrens    .... 
The  Literature  of  Mirth 
Kathleen        .... 
Minute  Philosophies 
Morning  and  Night 
The  Solitary  of  Shawmut 

July 

Cochituate  Lake     . 

The  Morning  Visit          . 

The  Fatal  Secret    . 

The  Jingko  Tree   . 

The  Seen  and  the  Unseen 

Santa  Croce  . 

Washington  and  The  Union     . 

Mount  Auburn 


GEORGE  S.  HILLARD     .  .          1 
O.  W.   HOLMES     ...          9 

NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  .       13 

JAMES  R.  LOWELL          .  .       30 

EDWIN  P.  WHIPPLE       .  .       32 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER       .  .       39 

N.   P.  WILLIS        .             .  .44 

HARRIET  WINSLOW       .  .       69 

J.  L.  MOTLEY       .             .  .72 

THOMAS  W.  PARSONS,  JR.  .       82 

NEHEMIAH  ADAMS          .  .       84 

O.   W.  HOLMES     .             .  .89 

DANIEL  WEBSTER           .  .       93 

JACOB  BIGELOW                .  .       96 

EPHRAIM  PEABODY        .  .    100 

EDWARD  EVERETT         .  .    106 

ROBERT   C.  W1NTHROP  .    110 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE         .  .114 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


Thomas  Chalmers  . 
Resignation    .... 
The  Chase     .         .        .        ., 
Forget  Me  Not 
Character  of  Walter  Scott 
Dedication  of  a  Lyceum  Hall  . 
Value  of  Mechanical  Industry  . 

Mary 

That  Gentleman 

The  Atlantic  Steamer     . 

Washington  Allston 

Labor    ..... 

Goodness        . 

The  Ocean     . 

Recollections  of  Cooper  . 

The  Wind      . 

Nature 

Song 

The  Lost  Colony    . 

To  a  Lady     .... 

A  Picture  of  War  . 

Love 

Prejudice        . 

On  a  Book  of  Sea-Mosses 

The  Yankee  Zincali 

Home    ..... 

Clerks  and  Employers     . 


DANIEL  SHARP     .             .  .  116 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW  .  123 

FRANCIS  PARKMAN,  JR.  .  126 

EPES  SARGENT    .            .  .  134 

WILLIAM  H.   PRESCOTT  .  136 

JOHN  PIERPONT               .  .  142 

RUFUS  CHOATE   .            .  .  144 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN  .  152 

EDWARD  EVERETT         .  .  154 

JAMES  F.  COLMAN          .  .  167 

CHARLES  SUMNER          .  .  171 

FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD      .  .  178 

F.  D.  HUNTINGTON         .  .  180 

RICHARD  H.  DANA          .  .  191 

JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM  .  193 

GEORGE  LUNT       .             .  .  208 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  .  210 

NATHANIEL  GREENE     .  .217 

JOHN  S.  SLEEPER            .  .  218 

THOMAS  W.   PARSONS,  JR.  .  223 

THEODORE  PARKER       .  .  225 

WILLIAM  W.  STORY     .  .  231 

SAMUEL  G.  GOODRICH  .  .  232 

JAMES  T.  FIELDS            .  .  239 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER       .  .  240 

ISAAC    Mc.LELLAN          .  .  253 

DANIEL  N.  HASKELL     .  .  255 


CONTENTS. 


vn 


Charles  James 

Early  Days  of  John  Ledyard  . 
My  Little  Daughter's  Shoes    . 
First  Impressions  of  a  Sailor  . 
To  Scotland  .... 
Guy  Linden's  First  Book 
Be  Happy      .... 
Room  and  Work  Enough 
To  my  Namesake  . 
A  Welcome  to  Dickens 
Concord  Monument 
The  Successful  Scholar  . 
My  Youngest          .         .         . 
Recollections  of  Greenwood     . 
Love  and  Fame 
The  Last  Supper    . 
A  Winter  Morning . 
Footprints  of  Angels 


CHARLES  SPRAGUE    .  .  261 

JARED  SPARKS  .     .  .  264 

CHARLES  JAMES  SPRAGUE  .  277 

RICHARD  H.  DANA,  JR.  .  279 

ROBERT  C.  WATERSTON  .  286 

GEORGE  LUNT   .     .  .  289 

ELIZUR  WRIGHT      .  .  313 

GEORGE  R.  RUSSELL  .  .  316 

WILLIAM  CROSWELL  .  .  323 

JOSIAH  QUINCY,  JR.  .  .  325 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  .  333 

GEORGE  PUTNAM     .  .  334 

DANIEL  SHARP  .     .  .  339 

N.  L.  FROTHINGHAM  .  .  341 

ANNA  H.  PHILLIPS    .  .  345 

HANNAH  F.  LEE      .  .  318 

ANDREWS  NORTON    .  .  355 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW  .  358 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


THE   OLD   LATIN   SCHOOL   HOUSE. 


BY    GEORGE    S.  HILLARD. 


As  an  old  pupil  of  the  Latin  School,  I  cannot 
witness  the  destruction  of  the  School  House,  which 
is  now  going  on,  without  a  swelling  of  the  heart. 
How  many  memories  and  associations  are  shattered 
by  the  ruthless  pickaxes  which  I  see  at  work  upon 
those  bricks  and  stones  !  An  attachment  to  the 
place,  where  our  young  minds  were  fed  with  the 
food  of  knowledge,  is  one  of  the  universal  instincts 
of  humanity.  The  man  who  can  pass  without 
emotion  by  the  play -place  and  study-place  of  his 
early  years,  must  have  a  heart  thoroughly  petrified 
by  worldly  cares  or  worldly  pleasures.  It  is  this 
feeling,  which  gives  its  charm  to  Gray's  fine  ode 
on  a  distant  prospect  of  Eton  College,  and  their 
vivid  truth  to  the  pictures  in  Cowper's  Tirocinium. 
The  popularity  of  such  poetry  is  owing  to  the 
prevalence  of  the  emotions  to  which  it  appeals.  In 
I 


£          V     P     -, 

V       ? 


O       .^C 


THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 


every  bosom  there  is  a  chord  which  vibrates  to  that 
gentle  touch.  It  is  one  of  the  wants  of  our  coun 
try,  that  we  have  so  few  material  objects  to  link 
the  present  with  the  past.  Few  persons  live  in  the 
houses  in  which  their  fathers  lived  before  them. 
Few  persons  send  their  children  to  the  schools 
where  they  themselves  were  taught.  Few  of  our 
pine  academies  survive  one  generation.  The  Latin 
School  House  is  but  little  more  than  thirty  years 
old,  yet,  as  all  things  are  old  and  new  by  compari 
son,  it  had  always  a  venerable  aspect  to  my  eye. 

Certainly  there  were  no  intrinsic  charms  in  the 
building  to  commend  it  to  the  aifectionate  remem 
brances  of  the  boys.  There  never  was  any  thing 
more  bare,  more  tasteless,  more  uncouth.  The 
walls  were  the  blankest,  the  seats  the  hardest,  the 
desks  the  most  inconvenient,  that  could  be  imag 
ined.  "Going  out  "  was  such  a  farce.  It  was  only 
exchanging  a  room  with  a  roof,  for  one  without  ; 
and  really  not  big  enough  for  a  well  grown  boy  to 
swing  a  kitten  in.  But  what  did  we  care  for  all 
this?  Youth,  and  hope,  and  light  hearts,  are  such 
mighty  magicians.  How  they  gilded  and  colored 
those  walls  !  What  more  than  regal  tapestry  they 
hung  round  their  naked  desolation  ;  with  what  roses 
they  empurpled  that  dusty  floor  ;  what  beauty  they 
shed  round  that  narrow  staircase  ! 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  like  a  large  public 
school.  It  is  the  nearest  possible  approach  to  the 
palace  of  truth.  The  bar  is  said  to  be  a  good  place 
to  take  the  conceit  out  of  one,  but  it  is  nothing  to 


THE    OLD    LATIN    SCHOOL    HOUSE.  6 

a  school.  It  is  delightful  to  see  how  well  and  how 
quickly  the  operation  is  there  performed  ;  how  the 
full-blown  "bladder  of  self-conceit  is  pricked ;  how 
the  towering  crest  of  pride  is  brought  low.  There 
is  no  place  where  shams  and  masks,  and  lies  of  all 
kinds,  thrive  so  ill.  There  is  never  any  mistake 
about  the  extent  of  a  boy's  capacity.  The  proofs 
are  too  palpable  and  too  constant.  A  dunce  can 
never  be  any  thing  more  or  less  than  a  dunce.  Wise 
looks,  solemn  shakes  of  the  head,  judicial  gravity, 
discreet  silence  —  all  will  not  do.  The  murder 
will  out,  every  time  he  stands  up  to  recite.  And 
what  a  fierce  democracy  a  school  is  ;  how  little 
does  wealth  or  station  avail.  A  primitive  respect 
is  paid  to  purely  personal  qualities ;  to  the  strong 
hand,  the  generous  temper,  the  warm  heart,  the 
clever  brain.  A  boy  is  never  in  a  false  position 
towards  his  fellows.  He  receives  just  what  he  de 
serves,  and  no  more.  The  unconscious  justice 
which  prevails  in  a  large  school,  the  stern  law  of 
equivalents  which  is  there  enforced,  is  a  matter  not 
beneath  a  wise  man's  notice. 

There  is  no  better  illustration  of  Homer  than 
the  daily  course  of  a  public  school.  His  heroes  are 
grown-up  boys.  Like  them,  they  call  names.  Like 
them,  they  weep  honest  tears,  and  laugh  hearty 
laughs.  Like  them,  they  speak  out  the  whole 
truth.  When  a  boy  chances  to  make  an  ass  of 
himself  by  word  or  deed,  with  what  distinctness  is 
the  fact  communicated  to  him.  He  is  never  left  to 
grope  his  way  by  inferences.  Would  that  we  could 


4  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

all  be  boys  again  for  one   day.      What  faces  we 
should  see  in  Court  Street  and  in  State  Street ! 

I  pass  daily  in  the  streets  many  of  my  old  school 
fellows.  To  me  they  are  always  boys.  I  see  the 
blooming  looks  of  childhood  through  those  strong 
and  manly  lines.  And  yet  how  many  are  changed. 
Such  cold,  money-getting  eyes  are  turned  upon  me. 
Some  have  protuberant  waistcoats,  and  are  growing 
almost  gouty.  Some  have  that  compressed  lip  and 
furrowed  brow  which  speak  of  suppressed  grief  — 
of  that  unspoken  sorrow,  whose  darkling  current 
mines  away  the  heart  unseen.  In  some,  the  natu 
ral  face  is  so  changed  that  it  looks  like  a  mask. 
Some,  many,  are  unaltered.  With  them  the  flavor 
of  youth  is  unimpaired.  Towards  them  the  dark 
cloud  has  not  been  turned.  With  them  the  boy 
has  flowed  into  the  man,  as  the  brook  expands  into 
the  river.  As  I  pass  by  these  early  companions, 
with  a  cold  nod  of  recognition,  I  have  often  longed 
to  stop  them  and  say  to  them,  "  Tell  me,  in  ten 
words,  your  history  —  where  do  you  feel  the  pinch 
of  life  ?  » 

All,  however,  are  not  left.  The  reaper  Death  has 
gathered  many  of  those  blooming  forms  into  his 
harvest.  As  I  pass  by  the  spot,  I  see  again  those 
young  faces  which  have  passed  into  the  sky,  and 
hear  again  those  joyous  voices  which  have  long 

since  ceased  to  wake  the  echoes  of  earth.     S * 

reappears  to  me  as  he  was  in  those  days  —  that  rare, 

*  William  W.  Sturgis. 


THE    OLD    LATIN    SCHOOL    HOUSE.  5 

bright,  stainless  creature  ;  so  firm,  and  yet  so  gen 
tle  ;  whose  fine  mind  and  lovely  character  impressed 
even  the  rude  perceptions  of  schoolboys  with  a 
peculiar  feeling  of  reverence ;  as  if  an  angel  were 
visibly  guiding  those  steps  that  never  went  astray. 

I  greet,  from  the  land  of  shadows,  J ,*  cordial, 

warm-hearted,  and  true,  but  not  yet  showing  those 
marked  intellectual  qualities  which  afterwards  gave 

such  rare  promise  of  professional  distinction.    C f 

is  again  before  me,  the  faithful,  conscientious  scholar, 
putting  a  sense  of  duty  into  all  his  life,  and  sub 
sequently  adorning  his  sacred  calling,  during  the 
brief  period  in  which  he  was  permitted  to  exercise 
it,  with  all  the  Christian  graces.  The  glowing  face 

of  E 1  again  beams  upon  me  —  overshadowed 

with  his  early-gathered  laurels  —  that  express  image 
of  a  young  scholar  —  with  invention  ever  new,  and 
wild  wit,  whose  random  shafts  sometimes  drew 
blood,  full  of  bright  fancies  and  various  knowledge, 
writing  even  then  in  a  style  whose  airy  grace 
awakened  our  admiration  and  despair,  and  charm 
ing  eye  and  ear  alike  with  his  beautiful  elocution. 
They  all  throng  round  me  again,  these  dim  shad 
ows.  The  present  disappears,  and  I  live  only  in 
the  past. 

The  gentleman  who  was  at  the  head  of  the 
school  in  my  day,  is  still  living  among  us.  For 
this  reason  I  cannot  speak  of  him  as  I  would,  or 
express  the  extent  of  our  obligations  to  him.  Far 

*  James  Jackson,  Jr.       t  George  Chapman,      t  Charles  C.  Emerson. 
1* 


6  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

distant  may  the  day  be,  when  we  shall  be  permit 
ted  to  utter  his  eulogy.  But  his  own  works  are 
daily  praising  him  in  the  gates,  and  the  character  of 
the  pupils  whom  he  has  trained  is  covering  his 
name  with  silent  benedictions.  But  of  some  of 
those  who  were  associated  with  him  we  may  speak 
more  freely,  for  the  touch  of  death  has  unsealed  our 

lips.      There  was  L ,*    that  excellent  scholar 

and  good  man,  who  labored  so  faithfully  and  so 
fatally  in  his  vocation,  with  an  organization  too 
sensitive,  and  a  nervous  temperament  too  irritable, 
to  endure  the  wear  and  tear  of  teaching. 

My  eyes  grow  dim,  as  I  recall  the  face  and  form 
of  S ,f  for  he  called  out  all  the  love  and  grati 
tude  of  my  young  heart.  He  was  a  man  of  rare 
faculties.  How  wisely,  calmly,  nobly,  he  dis 
charged  his  trust.  We  all  loved  him,  but  the  hold 
ing  up  of  his  finger  would  quell  the  boldest  of  our 
spirits.  He  had  a  most  discriminating  glance,  and 
seemed  to  know  the  very  spot  where  every  boy 
could  be  most  judiciously  touched.  All  instruction 
came  mended  from  his  lips,  such  was  the  magnet 
ism  of  his  manner.  He  gave  an  impulse  to  my 
mind  which  it  has  never  lost,  and  I  never  met  his 
smile  of  encouragement  without  a  bounding  of  the 
heart.  He  died  too  early  for  the  community  fully 
to  appreciate  their  loss  •  but  they,  who  knew  him, 
will  feel  the  truth  of  all  I  have  said  —  and  that 
much  more  might  be  said  without  extravagance. 

*  Frederic  P.  Leverelt.  t  J.  Greele  Stevenson. 


THE    OLD    LATIN    SCHOOL    HOUSE.  7 

I  have  wandered  far  from  the  point  from  which  I 
started,  and  naturally  enough,  for  we  grow  garru 
lous  as  we  get  on  in  life.  I  could  not  see  the  pros 
tration  of  those  walls,  without  giving  them  the 
meed  of  a  sigh.  The  very  young  will  hardly  sym 
pathize  with  the  emotions  which  I  feel.  They 
are  not  sentimental.  Sorrow  and  disappointment 
have  not  beaten  upon  their  hearts  till  they  have 
turned  soft  and  womanish  under  the  staggering 
blows.  But  my  contemporaries  and  elders  will  feel 
with  me,  I  am  sure.  They  cannot  pass  by  those 
unsightly  ruins  all  unmoved. 

New  associations  will  cling  round  the  old  place, 
and  the  old  feelings  will  be  transferred  to  a  new 
locality.  In  every  respect  the  pupils  will  have 
gained  by  the  change.  They  are  better  off  than 
we  were.  With  motives  as  strong,  and  love  of 
knowledge  as  keen,  they  have  the  advantage  of  far 
better  helps  and  appliances,  and  a  higher  standard  of 
culture.  We  were  compelled  to  feed  on  such  husks 
as  the  Gloucester  Greek  Grammar,  Lempriere's 
Dictionary,  and  a  Delphin  Virgil  with  an  ordo 
meandering  along  the  margin ;  things  now  as  much 
out  of  date  as  wigs  and  three-cornered  hats.  I  hear 
now  in  the  school  a  sound  of  "  logical  predicates," 
as  strange  to  my  ear  as  nouns  and  verbs  were  to 
Jack  Cade's.  These  fine  lads  are  striding  after  us 
with  seven-leagued  boots.  I  rejoice  that  they  are 
to  know  so  much  more  than  we.  May  the  car  of 
Time  thus  ever  bear  improvement  on  its  wheels. 
Blessings  be  upon  those  young  hearts  and  minds, 


8  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

that  are  now  in  quiet  retreats,  cropping  the  flowery 
food  of  knowledge.  They  have  small  occasion  to 
envy  us.  But  such  is  not  their  feeling.  They 
strain,  like  greyhounds  on  the  slip,  to  join  the  race 
of  active  life.  Hope  writes  the  poetry  of  the  boy, 
but  memory  that  of  the  man.  Man  looks  forward 
with  smiles,  but  backward  with  sighs.  Such  is  the 
wise  providence  of  God.  The  cup  of  life  is  sweet 
est  at  the  brim,  the  flavor  is  impaired  as  we  drink 
deeper,  and  the  dregs  are  made  bitter  that  we  may 
not  struggle  when  it  is  taken  from  our  lips. 


BOSTON  CHURCH  BELLS. 


BY    O.  W.  HOLMES. 


THE  air  is  hushed  ;  the  street  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hark  !  The  sweet  bells  renew  their  welcome  sound  ; 
As  one  by  one  awakes  each  silent  tongue, 
It  tells  the  turret  whence  its  voice  is  flung. 

The  Chapel,  last  of  sublunary  things 
That  shocks  our  echoes  with  the  name  of  Kings, 
Whose  bell,  just  glistening  from  the  font  and  forge, 
Rolled  its  proud  requiem  for  the  second  George, 
Solemn  and  swelling,  as  of  old  it  rang, 
Flings  to  the  wind  its  deep,  sonorous  clang  ;  — 
The  simpler  pile,  that,  mindful  of  the  hour 
When  Howe's  artillery  shook  its  half-built  tower, 
Wears  on  its  bosom,  as  a  bride  might  do, 
The  iron  breastpin  which  the  "  Rebels"  threw, 
Wakes  the  sharp  echoes  with  the  quivering  thrill 
Of  keen  vibrations,  tremulous  and  shrill ;  — 
Aloft  suspended  in  the  morning's  fire, 
Crash  the  vast  cymbals  from  the  Southern  spire ;  — 
The  giant,  standing  by  the  elm-clad  green, 
His  white  lance  lifted  o'er  the  silent  scene, 
Whirling  in  air  his  brazen  goblet  round, 
Swings  from  its  brim  the  swollen  floods  of  sound  ;  — 


10  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

While,  sad  with  memories  of  the  olden  time, 
The  Northern  Minstrel  pours  her  tender  chime, 
Faint,  single  tones,  that  spell  their  ancient  song, 
But  tears  still  follow  as  they  breathe  along. 

Child  of  the  soil,  whom  fortune  sends  to  range 
Where  man  and  nature,  faith  and  customs  change, 
Borne  in  thy  memory,  each  familiar  tone 
Mourns  on  the  winds  that  sigh  in  every  zone. 
When  Ceylon  sweeps  thee  with  her  perfumed  breeze 
Through  the  warm  billows  of  the  Indian  seas ; 
When,  —  ship  and  shadow  blended  both  in  one,  — 
Flames  o'er  thy  mast  the  equatorial  sun, 
From  sparkling  midnight  to  refulgent  noon 
Thy  canvas  swelling  with  the  still  monsoon ; 
When  through  thy  shrouds  the  wild  tornado  sings 
And  thy  poor  seabird  folds  her  tattered  wings, 
Oft  will  delusion  o'er  thy  senses  steal, 
And  airy  echoes  ring  the  Sabbath  peal ! 
Then,  dim  with  grateful  tears,  in  long  array 
Rise  the  fair  town,  the  island-studded  bay, 
Home,  with  its  smiling  board,  its  cheering  fire, 
The  half-choked  welcome  of  the  expecting  sire, 
The  mother's  kiss,  and,  still  if  aught  remain, 
Our  whispering  hearts  shall  aid  the  silent  strain  — 

Ah,  let  the  dreamer  o'er  the  taffrail  lean 
To  muse  unheeded,  and  to  weep  unseen ; 
Fear  not  the  tropic's  dews,  the  evening's  chills, 
His  heart  lies  warm  among  his  triple  hills  ! 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE. 

BY    NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE. 

ONE  sunshiny  morning,  in  the  good  old  times  of 
the  town  of  Boston,  a  young  carver  in  wood,  well 
known  by  the  name  of  Drowne,  stood  contemplating 
a  large  oaken  log,  which  it  was  his  purpose  to  con 
vert  into  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel.  And  while 
he  discussed  within  his  own  mind  what  sort  of 
shape  or  similitude  it  were  well  to  bestow  upon 
this  excellent  piece  of  timber,  there  came  into 
Browne's  workshop  a  certain  Captain  Hunnewell, 
owner  and  commander  of  the  good  brig  called  the 
Cynosure,  which  had  just  returned  from  her  first 
voyage  to  Fayal. 

"Ah  !  that  will  do,  Drowne,  that  will  do  !  "  cried 
the  jolly  captain,  tapping  the  log  with  his  rattan. 
"  I  bespeak  this  very  piece  of  oak  for  the  figure-head 
of  the  Cynosure.  She  has  shown  herself  the  sweet 
est  craft  that  ever  floated,  and  I  mean  to  decorate 
her  prow  with  the  handsomest  image  that  the  skill 
of  man  can  cut  out  of  timber.  And,  Drowne,  you 
are  the  fellow  to  execute  it." 

"  You  give  me  more  credit  than  I  deserve,  Captain 


12  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Hunnewell,"  said  the  carver,  modestly,  yet  as  one 
conscious  of  eminence  in  his  art.  "  But,  for  the 
sake  of  the  good  brig,  I  stand  ready  to  do  my  best. 
And  which  of  these  designs  do  you  prefer  ?  Here," 
pointing  to  a  staring,  half  length  figure,  in  a  white 
wig  and  scarlet  coat —  "  here  is  an  excellent  model, 
the  likeness  of  our  gracious  king.  Here  is  the 
valiant  Admiral  Yernon.  Or,  if  you  prefer  a  female 
figure,  what  say  you  to  Britannia  with  the  trident  ?" 

"  All  very  fine,  Drowne ;  all  very  fine,"  answered 
the  mariner.  "  But  as  nothing  like  the  brig  ever 
swam  the  ocean,  so  I  am  determined  she  shall  have 
such  a  figure-head  as  old  Neptune  never  saw  in  his 
life.  And  what  is  more,  as  there  is  a  secret  in  the 
matter,  you  must  pledge  your  credit  not  to  betray 
it." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Drowne,  marvelling,  however, 
what  possible  mystery  there  could  be  in  reference 
to  an  affair  so  open,  of  necessity,  to  the  inspection 
of  all  the  world,  as  the  figure-head  of  a  vessel. 
"  You  may  depend,  captain,  on  my  being  as  secret 
as  the  nature  of  the  case  will  permit." 

Captain  Hunnewell  then  took  Drowne  by  the 
button,  and  communicated  his  wishes  in  so  low  a 
tone,  that  it  would  be  unmannerly  to  repeat  what 
was  evidently  intended  for  the  carver's  private  ear. 
We  shall,  therefore,  take  the  opportunity  to  give 
the  reader  a  few  desirable  particulars  about  Drowne 
himself. 

He  was  the  first  American  who  is  known  to  have 
attempted,  —  in  a  very  humble  line,  it  is  true,  — 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  13 

that  art  in  which  we  can  now  reckon  so  many 
names  already  distinguished,  or  rising  to  distinction. 
From  his  earliest  boyhood,  he  had  exhibited  a 
knack  —  for  it  would  be  too  proud  a  word  to  call  it 
genius  —  a  knack,  therefore,  for  the  imitation  of 
the  human  figure,  in  whatever  material  came  most 
readily  to  hand.  The  snows  of  a  New  England 
winter  had  often  supplied  him  with  a  species  of 
marble  as  dazzling  white,  at  least,  as  the  Parian  or 
Carrara,  and  if  less  durable,  yet  sufficiently  so  to 
correspond  with  any  claims  to  permanent  existence 
possessed  by  the  boy's  frozen  statues.  Yet  they 
won  admiration  from  maturer  judges  than  his 
schoolfellows,  and  were,  indeed,  remarkably  clever, 
though  destitute  of  the  native  warmth  that  might 
have  made  the  snow  melt  beneath  his  hand.  As 
he  advanced  in  life,  the  young  man  adopted  pine 
and  oak  as  eligible  materials  for  the  display  of  his 
skill,  which  now  began  to  bring  him  a  return  of 
solid  silver,  as  well  as  the  empty  praise  that  had 
been  an  apt  reward  enough  for  his  productions  of 
evanescent  snow.  He  became  noted  for  carving 
ornamental  pump-heads,  arid  wooden  urns  for  gate 
posts,  and  decorations,  more  grotesque  than  fanci 
ful,  for  mantel-pieces.  No  apothecary  would  have 
deemed  himself  in  the  way  of  obtaining  custom, 
without  setting  up  a  gilded  mortar,  if  not  a  head  of 
Galen  or  Hippocrates,  from  the  skilful  hand  of 
Drowrie.  But  the  great  scope  of  his  business  lay 
in  the  manufacture  of  figure-heads  for  vessels. 
Whether  it  were  the  monarch  himself,  or  some 
2 


14  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

famous  British  admiral  or  general,  or  the  governor 
of  the  province,  or  perchance  the  favorite  daughter 
of  the  ship-owner,  there  the  image  stood  above  the 
prow,  decked  out  in  gorgeous  colors,  magnificently 
gilded,  and  staring  the  whole  world  out  of  counte 
nance,  as  if  from  an  innate  consciousness  of  its  own 
superiority.  These  specimens  of  native  sculpture 
had  crossed  the  sea  in  all  directions,  and  been  not 
ignobly  noticed  among  the  crowded  shipping  of  the 
Thames,  and  wherever  else  the  hardy  mariners  of 
New  England  had  pushed  their  adventures.  It 
must  be  confessed,  that  a  family  likeness  pervaded 
these  respectable  progeny  of  Browne's  skill ;  that 
the  benign  countenance  of  the  king  resembled  those 
of  his  subjects,  and  that  Miss  Peggy  Hobart,  the 
merchant's  daughter,  bore  a  remarkable  similitude 
to  Britannia,  Victory,  and  other  ladies  of  the  allego 
ric  sisterhood ;  and,  finally,  that  they  all  had  a  kind 
of  wooden  aspect,  which  proved  an  intimate  rela 
tionship  with  the  unshaped  blocks  of  timber  in  the 
carver's  workshop.  But,  at  least,  there  \vas  no 
inconsiderable  skill  of  hand,  nor  a  deficiency  of  any 
attribute  to  render  them  really  works  of  art,  except 
that  deep  quality,  be  it  of  soul  or  intellect,  which 
bestows  life  upon  the  lifeless,  and  warmth  upon  the 
cold,  and  which,  had  it  been  present,  would  have 
made  Browne's  wooden  image  instinct  with  spirit. 

The  captain  of  the  Cynosure  had  now  finished 
his  instructions. 

"  And  Browne,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  you 
must  lay  aside  all  other  business,  and  set  about  this 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  15 

forthwith.  And  as  to  the  price,  only  do  the  job  in 
first  rate  style,  and  you  shall  settle  that  point  your 
self." 

"  Very  well,  captain,"  answered  the  carver,  who 
looked  grave  and  somewhat  perplexed,  yet  had  a 
sort  of  smile  upon  his  visage.  "  Depend  upon  it. 
I  '11  do  my  utmost  to  satisfy  you." 

From  that  moment,  the  men  of  taste  about  Long 
Wharf  and  the  Town  Dock,  who  were  wont  to 
show  their  love  for  the  arts,  by  frequent  visits  to 
Browne's  workshop,  and  admiration  of  his  wooden 
images,  began  to  be  sensible  of  a  mystery  in  the 
carver's  conduct.  Often  he  was  absent  in  the  day 
time.  Sometimes,  as  might  be  judged  by  gleams 
of  light  from  the  shop  windows,  he  was  at  work 
until  a  late  hour  of  the  evening  ;  although  neither 
knock  nor  voice,  on  such  occasions,  could  gain 
admittance  for  a  visitor,  or  elicit  any  word  of 
response.  Nothing  remarkable,  however,  was  ob 
served  in  the  shop  at  those  hours  when  it  was 
thrown  open.  A  fine  piece  of  timber,  indeed,  which 
Browne  was  known  to  have  reserved  for  some  work 
of  especial  dignity,  was  seen  to  be  gradually  assum 
ing  shape.  What  shape  it  was  destined  ultimately 
to  take,  was  a  problem  to  his  frieuds,  and  a  point 
on  which  the  carver  himself  preserved  a  rigid  si 
lence.  But  day  after  day,  though  Browne  was 
seldom  noticed  in  the  act  of  working  upon  it,  this 
rude  form  began  to  be  developed,  until  it  became 
evident  to  all  observers,  that  a  female  figure  was 
growing  into  mimic  life.  At  each  new  visit  they 


16  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

beheld  a  larger  pile  of  wooden  chips,  and  a  nearer 
approximation  to  something  beautiful.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  hamadryad  of  the  oak  had  sheltered  herself 
from  the  unimaginative  world  within  the  heart  of 
her  native  tree,  and  that  it  was  only  necessary  to 
remove  the  strange  shapelessness  that  had  incrusted 
her,  and  reveal  the  grace  and  loveliness  of  a  divinity. 
Imperfect  as  the  design,  the  attitude,  the  costume, 
and  especially  the  face  of  the  image,  still  remained, 
there  was  already  an  effect  that  drew  the  eye  from 
the  wooden  cleverness  of  Browne's  earlier  produc 
tions,  and  fixed  it  upon  the  tantalizing  mystery  of 
this  new  project. 

Copley,  the  celebrated  painter,  then  a  young 
man,  and  a  resident  of  Boston,  came  one  day  to 
visit  Drowne ;  for  he  had  recognized  so  much  o^ 
moderate  ability  in  the  carver,  as  to  induce  him,  in 
the  dearth  of  any  professional  sympathy,  to  culti 
vate  his  acquaintance.  On  entering  the  shop,  the 
artist  glanced  at  the  inflexible  image  of  king, 
commander,  dame,  and  allegory  that  stood  around  ; 
on  the  best  of  which  might  have  been  bestowed 
the  questionable  praise,  that  it  looked  as  if  a  living 
man  had  here  been  changed  to  wood,  and  that  not 
only  the  physical,  but  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
part,  partook  of  the  stolid  transformation.  But  in 
not  a  single  instance  did  it  seem  as  if  the  wood 
were  imbibing  the  ethereal  essence  of  humanity. 
What  a  wide  distinction  is  here,  and  how  far  would 
the  slightest  portion  of  the  latter  merit  have  out 
valued  the  utmost  degree  of  the  former  ! 


DROWNE7 S    WOODEN    IMAGE. 


17 


"  My  friend  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  smiling  to 
himself,  but  alluding  to  the  mechanical  and  wooden 
cleverness  that  so  invariably  distinguished  the  ima 
ges,  "  you  are  really  a  remarkable  person  !  I  have 
seldom  met  with  a  man,  in  your  line  of  business, 
that  could  do  so  much,  for  one  other  touch  might 
make  this  figure  of  General  Wolfe,  for  instance,  a 
breathing  and  intelligent  human  creature." 

"  You  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  praising 
me  highly,  Mr.  Copley,"  answered  Drowne,  turning 
his  back  upon  Wolfe's  image  in  apparent  disgust. 
"  But  there  has  come  a  light  into  my  mind.  I  know, 
what  you  know  as  well,  that  the  one  touch,  which 
you  speak  of  as  deficient,  is  the  only  one  that  would 
be  truly  valuable,  and  that,  without  it,  these  works 
of  mine  are  no  better  than  worthless  abortions. 
There  is  the  same  difference  between  them  and  the 
works  of  an  inspired  artist,  as  between  a  sign-post 
daub  and  one  of  your  best  pictures." 

"  This  is  strange  !  "  cried  Copley,  looking  him  in 
the  face,  which  now,  as  the  painter  fancied,  had  a 
singular  depth  of  intelligence,  though,  hitherto,  it 
had  not  given  him  greatly  the  advantage  over  his 
own  family  of  wooden  images.  "  What  has  come 
over  you  ?  How  is  it  that,  possessing  the  idea 
which  you  have  now  uttered,  you  should  produce 
only  such  works  as  these  ?  " 

The  carver  smiled,  but  made  no  reply.  Copley 
turned  again  to  the  images,  conceiving  that  the 
sense  of  deficiency,  so  rare  in  a  merely  mechanical 
character,  must  surely  imply  a  genius,  the  tokens 

2* 


18  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

of  which  had  been  overlooked.  But  no  ;  there  was 
not  a  trace  of  it.  He  was  about  to  withdraw,  when 
his  eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon  a  half-developed  figure 
which  lay  in  a  corner  of  the  workshop,  surrounded 
by  scattered  chips  of  oak.  It  arrested  him  at  once. 

"  What  is  here  ?  Who  has  done  this?  "  he  broke 
out,  after  contemplating  it  in  speechless  astonish 
ment  for  an  instant.  "  Here  is  the  divine,  the  life- 
giving  touch !  What  inspired  hand  is  beckoning 
this  wood  to  arise  and  live  ?  Whose  work  is 
this?" 

"  No  man's  work,"  replied  Drowne.  "  The 
figure  lies  within  that  block  of  oak,  and  it  is  my 
business  to  find  it." 

"  Drowne,"  said  the  true  artist,  grasping  the 
carver  fervently  by  the  hand,  "  You  are  a  man  of 
genius !  " 

As  Copley  departed,  happening  to  glance  back 
ward  from  the  threshold,  he  beheld  Drowne  bending 
over  the  half  created  shape,  and  stretching  forth 
his  arms  as  if  he  would  have  embraced  and  drawn 
it  to  his  heart  ;  while,  had  such  a  miracle  been 
possible,  his  countenance  expressed  passion  enough 
to  communicate  warmth  and  sensibility  to  the  life 
less  oak. 

"  Strange  enough  !  "  said  the  artist  to  himself. 
"Who  would  have  looked  for  a  modem  Pygmalion 
in  the  person  of  a  Yankee  mechanic  !  " 

As  yet,  the  image  was  but  vague  in  its  outward 
presentment ;  so  that,  as  in  the  cloud-shapes  around 
the  western  sun,  the  observer  rather  felt,  or  was  led 


19 


to  imagine,  than  really  saw  what  was  intended  by 
it.  Day  by  day,  however,  the  work  assumed  greater 
precision,  and  settled  its  irregular  and  misty  outline 
into  distincter  grace  and  beauty.  The  general  de 
sign  was  now  obvious  to  the  common  eye.  It 
was  a  female  figure,  in  what  appeared  to  be  a 
foreign  dress ;  the  gown  being  laced  over  the  bosom 
and  opening  in  front,  so  as  to  disclose  a  skirt  or 
petticoat,  the  folds  and  inequalities  of  which  were 
admirably  represented  in  the  oaken  substance. 
She  wore  a  hat  of  singular  gracefulness,  and  abun 
dantly  laden  with  flowers,  such  as  never  grew  in 
the  rude  soil  of  New  England,  but  which,  with  all 
their  fanciful  luxuriance,  had  a  natural  truth  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  the  most  fertile  imagination 
to  have  attained  without  copying  from  real  proto 
types.  There  were  several  little  appendages  to  this 
dress,  such  as  a  fan,  a  pair  of  ear-rings,  a  chain  about 
the  neck,  a  watch  in  the  bosom,  and  a  ring  upon  the 
finger,  all  of  which  would  have  been  deemed  be 
neath  the  dignity  of  sculpture.  They  were  put  on, 
however,  with  as  much  taste  as  a  lovely  woman 
might  have  shown  in  her  attire,  and  could  therefore 
have  shocked  none  but  a  judgment  spoiled  by  artis 
tic  rules. 

The  face  was  still  imperfect ;  but,  gradually,  by 
a  magic  touch,  intelligence  and  sensibility  bright 
ened  through  the  features,  with  all  the  effect  of 
light  gleaming  forth  from  within  the  solid  oak. 
The  face  became  alive.  It  was  a  beautiful,  though 
not  precisely  regular,  and  somewhat  haughty  aspect, 


20  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

but  with  a  certain  piquancy  about  the  eyes  and 
mouth  which,  of  all  expressions,  would  have  seemed 
the  most  impossible  to  throw  over  a  wooden  coun 
tenance.  And  now,  so  far  as  carving  went,  this 
wonderful  production  was  complete. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  who  had  hardly  missed 
a  single  day  in  his  visits  to  the  carver's  workshop, 
"  if  this  work  were  in  marble,  it  would  make  you 
famous  at  once ;  nay,  I  would  almost  affirm  that  it 
would  make  an  era  in  the  art.  It  is  as  ideal  as  an 
antique  statue,  yet  as  real  as  any  lovely  woman 
whom  one  meets  at  a  fireside  or  in  the  street.  But 
I  trust  you  do  not  mean  to  desecrate  this  exquisite 
creature  with  paint,  like  those  staring  kings  and 
admirals  yonder  ?  " 

"Not  paint  her?"  exclaimed  Captain  Hunnewell, 
who  stood  by ;  "  not  paint  the  figure-head  of  the 
Cynosure  !  And  what  sort  of  a  figure  should  I  cut 
in  a  foreign  port,  with  such  an  unpainted  oaken 
stick  as  this  over  my  prow  ?  She  must,  and  she 
shall,  be  painted  to  the  life,  from  the  topmost  flower 
in  her  hat  down  to  the  silver  spangles  on  her  slip 
pers." 

"  Mr.  Copley,"  said  Drowne,  quietly,  "  I  know 
nothing  of  marble  statuary,  and  nothing  of  the 
sculptor's  rules  of  art.  But  of  this  wooden  image  — 
this  work  of  my  hands  — this  creature  of  my  heart  " 
—  and  here  his  voice  faltered  and  choked,  in  a  very 
singular  manner  —  "of  this  —  of  her  —  I  may  say 
that  I  know  something.  A  well-spring  of  inward 
wisdom  gushed  within  me,  as  I  wrought  upon  the 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  21 

oak  with  my  whole  strength,  and  soul,  and  faith. 
Let  others  do  what  they  may  with  marble,  and 
adopt  what  rules  they  choose.  If  I  can  produce 
my  desired  effect  by  painted  wood,  those  rules  are 
not  for  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  disregard  them." 

"  The  very  spirit  of  genius  !  "  muttered  Copley 
to  himself.  "  How  otherwise  should  this  carver 
feel  himself  entitled  to  transcend  all  rules,  and  make 
me  ashamed  of  quoting  them  !  " 

He  looked  earnestly  at  Drowne,  and  again  saw 
that  expression  of  human  love  which,  in  a  spiritual 
sense,  as  the  artist  could  not  help  imagining,  was 
the  secret  of  the  life  that  had  been  breathed  into 
this  block  of  wood. 

The  carver,  still  in  the  same  secrecy  that  marked 
all  his  operations  upon  this  mysterious  image,  pro 
ceeded  to  paint  the  habiliments  in  their  proper 
colors,  and  the  countenance  with  nature's  red  and 
white.  When  all  was  finished,  he  threw  open  his 
workshop,  and  admitted  the  towns-people  to  behold 
what  he  had  done.  Most  persons,  at  their  first 
entrance,  felt  impelled  to  remove  their  hats,  and 
pay  such  reverence  as  was  due  to  the  richly  dressed 
and  beautiful  young  lady,  who  seemed  to  stand  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  with  oaken  chips  and  shavings 
scattered  at  her  feet.  Then  came  a  sensation  of 
fear;  as  if,  not  being  actually  human,  yet  so  like 
humanity,  she  must  therefore  be  something  preter 
natural.  There  was,  in  truth,  an  indefinable  air 
and  expression  that  might  reasonably  induce  the 
query — who  and  from  what  sphere  this  daughter 


22  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

of  the  oak  should  be.  The  strange  rich  flowers  of 
Eden  on  her  head  ;  the  complexion,  so  much  deeper 
and  more  brilliant  than  those  of  our  native  beauties  ; 
the  foreign,  as  it  seemed,  and  fantastic  garb,  yet  not 
too  fantastic  to  be  worn  decorously  in  the  street ; 
the  delicately  wrought  embroidery  of  the  skirt  ; 
the  broad  gold  chain  about  her  neck  ;  the  curious 
ring  upon  her  finger ;  the  fan,  so  exquisitely  sculp 
tured  in  open  work,  and  painted  to  resemble  pearl 
and  ebony; — where  could  Drowne,  in  his  sober 
walk  of  life,  have  beheld  the  vision  here  so  match 
lessly  embodied  !  And  then  her  face !  In  the  dark 
eyes,  and  around  the  voluptuous  mouth,  there  played 
a  look  made  up  of  pride,  coquetry,  and  a  gleam  of 
mirthfulness,  which  impressed  Copley  with  the  idea 
that  the  image  was  secretly  enjoying  the  perplexing 
admiration  of  himself  and  other  beholders. 

"  And  will  you,"  said  he  to  the  carver,  "  permit 
this  master-piece  to  become  the  figure-head  of  a 
vesse\.  ?  Give  the  honest  captain  yonder  figure  of 
Britannia , —  it  will  answer  his  purpose  far  better,  — 
and  send  this  fairy  queen  to  England,  where,  for 
aught  I  know,  it  may  bring  you  a  thousand  pounds." 

"  I  have  not  wrought  it  for  money,"  said  Drowne. 

"  What  sort  of  a  fellow  is  this?"  thought  Copley. 
"  A  Yankee,  and  throw  away  the  chance  of  making 
his  fortune !  He  has  gone  mad ;  and  thence  has 
come  this  gleam  of  genius." 

There  was  still  further  proof  of  Browne's  lunacy, 
if  credit  were  due  to  the  rumor  that  he  had  been 
seen  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  the  oaken  lady,  and 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  23 

gazing  with  a  lover's  passionate  ardor  into  the  face 
that  his  own  hands  had  created.  The  bigots  of  the 
day  hinted  that  it  would  be  no  matter  of  surprise  if 
an  evil  spirit  were  allowed  to  enter  this  beautiful 
form,  and  seduce  the  carver  to  destruction. 

The  fame  of  the  image  spread  far  and  wide.  The 
inhabitants  visited  it  so  universally,  that,  after  a  few 
days  of  exhibition,  there  was  hardly  an  old  man  or 
a  child  who  had  not  become  minutely  familiar  with 
its  aspect.  Had  the  story  of  Drowne's  wooden 
image  ended  here,  its  celebrity  might  have  been 
prolonged  for  many  years,  by  the  reminiscences  of 
those  who  looked  upon  it  in  their  childhood,  and 
saw  nothing  else  so  beautiful  in  after  life.  But  the 
town  was  now  astounded  by  an  event,  the  narrative 
of  which  has  formed  itself  into  one  of  the  most  sin 
gular  legends  that  are  yet  to  be  met  with  in  the 
traditionary  chimney-corners  of  the  New  England 
metropolis,  where  old  men  and  women  sit  dreaming 
of  the  past,  and  wag  their  heads  at  the  dreamers  of 
the  present  and  the  future. 

One  fine  morning,  just  before  the  departure  of 
the  Cynosure  on  her  second  voyage  to  Fayal,  the 
commander  of  that  gallant  vessel  was  seen  to  issue 
from  his  residence  in  Hanover  street.  He  was 
stylishly  dressed  in  a  blue  broadcloth  coat,  with 
gold  lace  at  the  seams  and  button-holes,  an  embroi 
dered  scarlet  waistcoat,  a  triangular  hat,  with  a  loop 
and  broad  binding  of  gold,  and  wore  a  silver-hilted 
hanger  at  his  side.  But  the  good  captain  might 
have  been  arrayed  in  the  robes  of  a  prince,  or  the 


24  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

rags  of  a  beggar,  without  in  either  case  attracting 
notice,  while  obscured  by  such  a  companion  as  now 
leaned  on  his  arm.  The  people  in  the  street  started, 
rubbed  their  eyes,  and  either  leaped  aside  from  their 
path,  or  stood  as  if  transfixed  to  wood  or  marble  in 
astonishment. 

"  Do  you  see  it?  —  do  you  see  it?"  cried  one, 
with  tremulous  eagerness.  "  It  is  the  very  same  !  " 

"  The  same  ? "  answered  another,  who  had  ar 
rived  in  town  only  the  night  before.  "Who  do 
you  mean?  I  see  only  a  sea-captain  in  his  shore- 
going  clothes,  and  a  young  lady  in  a  foreign  habit, 
with  a  bunch  of  beautiful  flowers  in  her  hat.  On 
my  word,  she  is  as  fair  and  bright  a  damsel  as  my 
eyes  have  looked  on  this  many  a  day !  " 

"Yes;  the  same! — the  very  same!"  repeated 
the  other.  "  Drowne's  wooden  image  has  come  to 
life  !  " 

Here  was  a  miracle  indeed  !  Yet,  illuminated  by 
the  sunshine,  or  darkened  by  the  alternate  shade  of 
the  houses,  and  with  its  garments  fluttering  lightly 
in  the  morning  breeze,  there  passed  the  image  along 
the  street.  It  was  exactly  and  minutely  the  shape, 
the  garb,  and  the  face,  which  the  towns-people  had 
so  recently  thronged  to  see  and  admire.  Not  a  rich 
flower  upon  her  head,  not  a  single  leaf,  but  had  its 
prototype  in  Drowne's  wooden  workmanship,  al 
though  now  their  fragile  grace  had  become  flexible, 
and  was  shaken  by  every  footstep  that  the  wearer 
made.  The  broad -gold  chain  upon  the  neck  was 
identical  with  the  one  represented  on  the  image, 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  25 

and  glistened  with  the  motion  imparted  by  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  bosom  which  it  decorated.  A  real 
diamond  sparkled  on  her  finger.  In  her  right  hand 
she  bore  a  pearl  and  ebony  fan,  which  she  flourished 
with  a  fantastic  and  bewitching  coquetry,  that  was 
likewise  expressed  in  all  her  movements,  as  well  as 
in  the  style  of  her  beauty  and  the  attire  that  so 
well  harmonized  with  it.  The  face,  with  its  bril 
liant  depth  of  complexion,  had  the  same  piquancy 
of  mirthful  mischief  that  was  fixed  upon  the  coun 
tenance  of  the  image,  but  which  was  here  varied 
and  continually  shifting,  yet  always  essentially  the 
same,  like  the  sunny  gleam  upon  a  bubbling  foun 
tain.  On  the  whole,  there  was  something  so  airy 
and  yet  so  real  in  the  figure,  and  withal  so  perfectly 
did  it  represent  Drowne's  image,  that  people  knew 
not  whether  to  suppose  the  magic  wood  ethereal- 
ized  into  a  spirit,  or  warmed  and  softened  into  an 
actual  woman. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,"  muttered  a  Puritan  of  the 
old  stamp.  "  Drowne  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil  ; 
and  doubtless  this  gay  Captain  Hunnewell  is  a  party 
to  the  bargain." 

"And  I,"  said  a  young  man  who  overheard  him, 
"would  almost  consent  to  be  the  third  victim,  for 
the  liberty  of  saluting  those  lovely  lips." 

"And  so  would  I,"  said  Copley,  the  painter,  "for 
the  privilege  of  taking  her  picture." 

The  image,  or  the  apparition,  whichever  it  might 
be,  still  escorted  by  the  bold  captain,  proceeded 
from  Hanover-street  through  some  of  the  cross- 
3 


26  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

lanes  that  make  this  portion  of  the  town  so  intricate, 
to  Ann-street,  thence  into  Dock-square,  and  so 
downward  to  Drowne's  shop,  which  stood  just  on 
the  water's  edge.  The  crowd  still  followed,  gather 
ing  volume  as  it  rolled  along.  Never  had  a  modern 
miracle  occurred  in  such  broad  daylight,  nor  in  the 
presence  of  such  a  multitude  of  witnesses.  The 
airy  image,  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  the  object 
of  the  murmurs  and  disturbance  that  swelled  behind 
her,  appeared  slightly  vexed  and  flustered,  yet  still 
in  a  manner  consistent  with  the  light  vivacity  and 
sportive  mischief  that  were  written  in  her  counte 
nance.  She  was  observed  to  flutter  her  fan  with 
such  vehement  rapidity,  that  the  elaborate  delicacy 
of  its  workmanship  gave  way,  and  it  remained 
broken  in  her  hand. 

Arriving  at  Drowne's  door,  while  the  captain 
threw  it  open,  the  marvellous  apparition  paused  an 
instant  on  the  threshold,  assuming  the  very  attitude 
of  the  image,  and  casting  over  the  crowd  that  glance 
of  sunny  coquetry  which  all  remembered  on  the 
face  of  the  oaken  lady.  She  and  her  cavalier  then 
disappeared. 

"  Ah ! "  murmured  the  crowd,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  as  with  one  vast  pair  of  lungs. 

"The  world  looks  darker,  now  that  she  has 
vanished,"  said  some  of  the  young  men. 

But  the  aged,  whose  recollections  dated  as  far 
back  as  witch  times,  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted 
that  our  forefathers  would  have  thought  it  a  pious 
deed  to  burn  the  daughter  of  the  oak  with  fire. 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  27 

"  If  she  be  other  than  a  bubble  of  the  elements," 
exclaimed  Copley,  "I  must  look  upon  her  face 
again !  " 

He  accordingly  entered  the  shop ;  and  there,  in 
her  usual  corner,  stood  the  image,  gazing  at  him, 
as  it  might  seem,  with  the  very  same  expression  of 
mirthful  mischief  that  had  been  the  farewell  look 
of  the  apparition  when,  but  a  moment  before,  she 
turned  her  face  towards  the  crowd.  The  carver 
stood  beside  his  creation,  mending  the  beautiful  fan. 
which  by  some  accident  was  broken  in  her  hand. 
But  there  was  no  longer  any  motion  in  the  life-like 
image,  nor  any  real  woman  in  the  workshop,  nor 
even  the  witchcraft  of  a  sunny  shadow,  that  might 
have  deluded  people's  eyes  as  it  flitted  along  the 
street.  Captain  Hunnewell,  too,  had  vanished. 
His  hoarse,  sea-breezy  tones,  however,  were  audible 
on  the  other  side  of  a  door  that  opened  upon  the 
water. 

"  Sit  down  in  the  stern  sheets,  my  lady,"  said  the 
gallant  captain.  "  Come,  bear  a  hand,  you  lubbers, 
and  set  us  on  board  in  the  turning  of  a  minute- 
glass." 

And  then  was  heard  the  stroke  of  oars. 

"  Drowne,"  said  Copley,  with  a  smile  of  intelli 
gence,  "  you  have  been  a  truly  fortunate  man. 
What  painter  or  statuary  ever  had  such  a  subject  ! 
No  wonder  that  she  inspired  a  genius  into  you,  and 
first  created  the  artist  who  afterwards  created  her 
image." 

Drowne  looked  at  him  with  a  visage   that  bore 


28  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  traces  of  tears,  but  from  which  the  light  of 
imagination  and  sensibility,  so  recently  illuminating 
it,  had  departed.  He  was  again  the  mechanical 
carver  that  he  had  been  known  to  be  all  his  life 
time. 

"  I  hardly  understand  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Cop 
ley,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his  brow.  "  This 
image!  Can  it  have  been  my  work?  Well,  —  I 
have  wrought  it  in  a  kind  of  dream  j  and  now  that 
I  am  broad  awake,  I  must  set  about  finishing  yon 
der  figure  of  Admiral  Vernon." 

And  forthwith  he  employed  himself  on  the  stolid 
countenance  of  one  of  his  wooden  progeny,  and 
completed  it  in  his  own  mechanical  style,  from 
which  he  was  never  known  afterwards  to  deviate. 
He  followed  his  business  industriously  for  many 
years,  acquired  a  competence,  and,  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life,  attained  to  a  dignified  station  in  the 
church,  being  remembered  in  records  and  traditions 
as  Deacon  Drowne,  the  carver.  One  of  his  produc 
tions,  an  Indian  chief,  gilded  all  over,  stood  during 
the  better  part  of  a  century  on  the  cupola  of  the 
Province  House,  bedazzling  the  eyes  of  those  who 
looked  upward,  like  an  angel  of  the  sun.  Another 
work  of  the  good  deacon's  hand,  —  a  reduced  like 
ness  of  friend  Captain  Hunnewell,  holding  a  tele 
scope  and  quadrant, — may  be  seen,  to  this  day,  at 
the  corner  of  Broad  and  State  streets,  serving  in  the 
useful  capacity  of  sign  to  the  shop  of  a  nautical 
instrument  maker.  We  know  not  how  to  account 
for  the  inferiority  of  this  quaint  old  figure,  as  com- 


BROWNE'S  WOODEN  IMAGE.  29 

pared  with  the  recorded  excellence  of  the  Oaken 
Lady,  unless  on  the  supposition,  that  in  every 
human  spirit  there  is  imagination,  sensibility,  crea 
tive  power,  genius,  which,  according  to  circumstan 
ces,  may  either  be  developed  in  this  world,  or 
shrouded  in  a  mask  of  dullness  until  another  state 
of  being.  To  our  friend  Drowne,  there  came  a 
brief  season  of  excitement,  kindled  by  love.  It 
rendered  him  a  genius  for  that  one  occasion,  but, 
coienched  in  disappointment,  left  him  again  the 
mechanical  carver  in  wood,  without  the  power  even 
of  appreciating  the  work  that  his  own  hands  had 
wrought.  Yet  who  can  doubt,  that  the  very  high 
est  state  to  which  a  human  spirit  can  attain,  in  its 
loftiest  aspirations,  is  its  truest  and  most  natural 
state,  and  that  Drowne  was  more  consistent  with 
himself  when  he  wrought  the  admirable  figure  of 
the  mysterious  lady,  than  when  he  perpetrated  a 
whole  progeny  of  blockheads  ? 

There  was  a  rumor  in  Boston,  about  this  period, 
that  a  young  Portuguese  lady  of  rank,  on  some 
occasion  of  political  or  domestic  disquietude,  had 
fled  from  her  home  in  Fayal,  and  put  herself  under 
the  protection  of  Captain  Hunnewell,  on  board  of 
whose  vessel,  and  at  whose  residence  she  was  shel 
tered  until  a  change  of  affairs.  This  fair  stranger 
must  have  been  the  original  of  Drowne's  Wooden 
Image. 

3* 


THE  SYRENS. 


BY    JAMES    R.    LOWELL. 


THE  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither ;  — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thee  !    O  come  hither ! 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 

The  low  west  wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts, 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow,  — 
"  To  the  shore 

Follow  !  O  follow  ! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore  ! 
For  evermore  ! " 

Look  how  the  gray,  old  Ocean 
From  the  depth  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices ; 


THE    SYRENS.  31 

List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 

Chiming  with  our  melody  ; 

And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 

Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 

That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea,  — 

And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere, — 

"  Here  mayest  thou  harbor  peacefully, 

Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar; 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore ! 

For  evermore ! " 

And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 
"  Evermore ! " 

Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea ; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely  ? 
Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 


32  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 

A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shall  lie 

Even  in  death  unquietly  ? 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave- worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  side-long  shark 

Upturned  patiently, 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee  : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 
Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 
Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play ; 

Look  down  !    Look  down  ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee ! 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 
Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea ! 
Look  down  !    Look  down  ! 

Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear, 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream  ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue  : 
Listen !    O  listen ! 


THE    SYRENS.  33 

Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 
A  song  of  many  birds, 

And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 

Lulled  to  a  numbered  flow  of  words,  — 
Listen  !    O  listen  ! 

Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 

Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 

At  once  with  glowing  fruit  and  flowers  crowned  ;  — 

The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 

That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches  the  land ; 

All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 

The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 

And  there,  where  the  smooth,  wet  pebbles  be, 

The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 

As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 

To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 

To  be  at  rest  for  evermore,  — 
For  evermore. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 

Heareth  the  marinere 

Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 

Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 

"  Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee !  " 

Nantaskct. 


THE   LITERATURE   OF   MIRTH. 


BY    EDWIN    P.    WH1PPLE. 

THE  ludicrous  side  of  life,  like  the  serious  side, 
has  its  literature,  and  it  is  a  literature  of  untold 
wealth.  Mirth  is  a  Proteus,  changing  its  shape  and 
manner  with  the  thousand  diversities  of  individual 
character,  from  the  most  superficial  gaiety,  to  the 
deepest,  most  earnest  humor.  Thus,  the  wit  of  the 
airy,  feather-brained  Farquhar  glances  and  gleams 
like  heat  lightning  ;  that  of  Milton  blasts  and  burns 
like  the  bolt.  Let  us  glance  carelessly  over  this 
wide  field  of  comic  writers,  who  have  drawn  new 
forms  of  mirthful  being  from  life's  ludicrous  side, 
and  note,  here  and  there,  a  wit  or  humorist. 
There  is  the  humor  of  Goethe  like  his  own 
summer  morning,  mirthfully  clear;  and  there  is 
the  tough  and  knotty  humor  of  old  Ben  Jonson, 
at  times  ground  down  at  the  edge  to  a  sharp- 
cutting  scorn,  and  occasionally  hissing  out  sting 
ing  words,  which  seem,  like  his  own  Mercury's, 
"  steeped  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit,  and  sparkle 


THE    LITERATURE    OF    MIRTH.  35 

like  salt  in  fire."  There  is  the  incessant  brilliancy 
of  Sheridan, — 

"  Whose  humor,  as  gay  as  the  fire-fly's  light, 

Played  round  every  subject,  and  shone  as  it  played ; 
Whose  wit  in  the  combat,  as  gentle  as  bright, 
Ne'er  carried  a  heart-stain  away  on  its  blade." 

There  is  the  uncouth  mirth,  that  winds,  stutters, 
wriggles  and  screams,  dark,  scornful,  and  savage, 
among  the  dislocated  joints  of  Carlyle's  spavined 
sentences.  There  is  the  lithe,  springy  sarcasm, 
the  hilarious  badinage,  the  brilliant,  careless  dis 
dain,  which  sparkle  and  scorch  along  the  glistening 
page  of  Holmes.  There  is  the  sleepy  smile  that 
sometimes  lies  so  benignly  on  the  sweet  and  serious 
diction  of  old  Isaak  Walton.  There  is  the  mirth 
of  Dickens,  twinkling  now  in  some  ironical  insinu 
ation, —  and  anon  winking  at  you  with  pleasant 
maliciousness,  its  distended  cheeks  fat  with  sup 
pressed  glee,  —  and  then,  again,  coming  out  in 
broad  gushes  of  humor,  overflowing  all  banks  and 
bounds  of  conventional  decorum.  There  is  Sydney 
Smith,  —  sly,  sleek,  swift,  subtle,  —  a  moment's 
motion,  and  the  human  mouse  is  in  his  paw  !  Mark, 
in  contrast  with  him,  the  beautiful  heedlessness 
with  which  the  Ariel-like  spirit  of  Gay  pours  it 
self  out  in  benevolent  mockeries  of  human  folly. 
There,  in  a  comer,  look  at  that  petulant  little  man, 
his  features  working  with  thought  and  pain,  his 
lips  wrinkled  with  a  sardonic  smile ;  and,  see  !  the 
immortal  personality  has  received  its  last  point  and 
polish  in  that  toiling  brain,  and,  in  a  strait,  luminous 


36  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

line,  with  a  twang  like  Scorn's  own  arrow,  hisses 
through  the  air  the  unerring  shaft  of  Pope,  —  to 

"  Dash  the  proud  gamester  from  his  gilded  car, 
And  bare  th'  base  heart  that  lurks  beneath  a  star." 

There,  a  little  above  Pope,  see  Dryden  keenly  dis 
secting  the  inconsistencies  of  Buckingham's  volatile 
mind,  or  leisurely  crushing  out  the  insect  life  of 
Shadwell, — 

"  owned,  without  dispute, 
Throughout  the  realms  of  Nonsense,  absolute." 

There,  moving  gracefully  through  that  carpeted 
parlor,  mark  that  dapper,  diminutive  Irish  gentle 
man.  The  moment  you  look  at  him,  your  eyes  are 
dazzled  with  the  whizzing  rockets  and  hissing 
wheels,  streaking  the  air  with  a  million  sparks, 
from  the  pyrotechnic  brain  of  Anacreon  Moore. 
Again,  cast  your  eyes  from  that  blinding  glare  and 
glitter,  to  the  soft  and  beautiful  brilliancy,  the  win 
ning  grace,  the  bland  banter,  the  gliding  wit,  the 
diffusive  humor,  which  make  you  in  love  with  all 
mankind,  in  the  charming  pages  of  Washington 
Irving.  And  now  for  another  change,  —  glance  at 
the  jerks  and  jets  of  satire,  the  mirthful  audacities, 
the  fretting  and  teasing  mockeries,  of  that  fat,  sharp 
imp,  half  Mephistopheles,  half  Falstaff,  that  cross 
between  Beelzebub  and  Rabelais,  known  in  all 
lands  as  the  matchless  Mr.  Punch.  No  English 
statesman,  however  great  his  power,  no  English 
nobleman,  however  high  his  rank,  but  knows  that 
every  week  he  may  be  pointed  at  by  the  scoffing 


THE    LITERATURE    OF    MJRTH.  37 

finger  of  that  omnipotent  buffoon,  and  consigned 
to  the  ridicule  of  the  world.  The  pride  of  intel 
lect,  the  pride  of  wealth,  the  power  to  oppress, — 
nothing  can  save  the  dunce  or  criminal  from  being 
pounced  upon  by  Punch,  and  held  up  to  a  derision 
or  execration,  which  shall  ring  from  London  to 
St.  Petersburg!!,  from  the  Ganges  to  the  Oregon. 
From  the  vitriol  pleasantries  of  this  arch-fiend  of 
Momus,  let  us  turn  to  the  benevolent  mirth  of  Ad- 
dison  and  Steele,  whose  glory  it  was  to  redeem 
polite  literature  from  moral  depravity,  by  showing 
that  wit  could  chime  merrily  in  with  the  voice  of 
virtue,  and  who  smoothly  laughed  away  many  a 
vice  of  the  national  character,  by  that  humor  which 
tenderly  touches  the  sensitive  point  with  an  evan 
escent  grace  and  genial  glee.  And  here  let  us  not 
forget  Goldsmith,  who^e  delicious  mirth  is  of  that 
rare  quality  which  lies  too  deep  for  laughter  ; 
which  melts  softly  into  the  mind,  suif using  it  with 
inexpressible  delight,  and  sending  the  soul  dancing 
joyously  into  the  eyes  to  utter  its  merriment  in 
liquid  glances,  passing  all  the  expression  of  tone. 
And  here,  though  we  cannot  do  him  justice,  let 
us  remember  the  name  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
deserving  a  place  second  to  none  in  that  band  of 
humorists,  whose  beautiful  depth  of  cheerful  feel 
ing  is  the  very  poetry  of  mirth.  In  ease,  grace, 
delicate  sharpness  of  satire,  in  a  felicity  of  touch 
which  often  surpasses  the  felicity  of  Addison,  in  a 
subtlety  of  insight  which  often  reaches  farther  than 
the  subtlety  of  Steele,  —  the  humor  of  Hawthorne 
4 


38  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

presents  traits  so  fine  as  to  be  almost  too  excellent 
for  popularity,  as,  to  every  one  who  has  attempted 
their  criticism,  they  are  too  refined  for  statement. 
The  brilliant  atoms  flit,  hover,  and  glance  before 
our  minds,  but  the  subtle  sources  of  their  ethereal 
light  lie  beyond  our  analysis,  — 

"And  no  speed  of  ours  avails 
To  hunt  upon  their  shining  trails." 

And  now,  let  us  breathe  a  benison  on  these  our 
mirthful  benefactors,  these  fine  revellers  among 
human  weaknesses,  these  stern,  keen  satirists  of 
human  depravity.  Wherever  Humor  smiles  away 
the  fretting  thoughts  of  care,  or  supplies  that  anti 
dote  which  cleanses 

"  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  weighs  upon  the  heart,  —  " 

wherever  Wit  riddles  folly,  abases  pride,  or  stings 
iniquity,  —  there  glides  the  cheerful  spirit,  or  glit 
ters  the  flashing  thought,  of  these  bright  enemies 
of  stupidity  and  gloom.  Thanks  to  them,  hearty 
thanks,  for  teaching  us  that  the  ludicrous  side  of 
life  is  its  wicked  side,  no  less  than  its  foolish ;  that 
in  a  lying  world  there  is  still  no  mercy  for  false 
hood  ;  that  Guilt,  however  high  it  may  lift  its 
brazen  front,  is  never  beyond  the  lightnings  of 
scorn ;  and  that  the  lesson  they  teach,  agrees  with 
the  lesson  taught  by  all  experience,  that  life,  in 
harmony  with  reason,  is  the  only  life  safe  from 
laughter,  that  life,  in  harmony  with  virtue,  is  the 
only  life  safe  from  contempt. 


KATHLEEN. 


BY    JOHN    G.  WHITTIER. 


OH  Norah !  lay  your  Basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  Old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  Lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  Lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  Wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  soe  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  Bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 

She  whipped  the  Maids,  and  starved  the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor ; 
"Ah,  woe  is  me  ! "  the  old  Lord  said, 

"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 


40  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

This  Lord  he  had  a  Daughter  faire, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing  fires 

Of  her  the  Gleeman  sung. 

"As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall ;  " 
So  sang  the  Harper  at  the  Fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  Hall. 

"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  Daughter  dear ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  Mother's  own  I  see  ! " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  Hair  away, 
He  kissed  her  Forehead  fair  : 

"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 
It  is  my  darling's  hair !  " 

Oh,  then  spake  up  the  angry  Dame, 
"  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 

"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea  !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  Hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  Gown  of  silk 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town, 

And  to  a  Captain  sold 
This  Daughter  of  an  Irish  Lord, 

For  ten  good  Pounds  in  gold. 


KATHLEEN.  41 

The  Lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray  ; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howled 

To  fright  the  evil  Dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through  the  Trees, 

And  glimmering  down  the  Hill ; 
They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  Door, 

And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"  Get  up,  old  Man  !  the  wake-lights  shine  ! " 
"  Ye  murthering  Witch,"  quoth  he  ; 

"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little  care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me." 

"  Oh  whoso  brings  my  Daughter  back, 

My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 
Oh,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  Page, 

"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave  ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  Daughter  dear, 

And  by  the  Holy  Tree 
Be  she  on  Sea  or  on  the  Land, 

I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  Daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  Bride  the  day 

Ye  bring  her  back  to  me." 


42  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

He  sailed  East,  he  sailed  West, 
And  North  and  South  sailed  he, 

Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 
Across  the  great  salt  Sea. 

"  Oh  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 

And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 
The  Maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 

I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 
And  she  is  called  Kathleen." 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 
Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 

Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  Maiden  fair, 
A  little  Basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy- white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither  Child,  and  say  hast  thou 
This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 

They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 
The  Page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  Oh  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold  :  " 

44  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  Master  said, 
44  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold." 


KATHLEEN.  43 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en ; 
But  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 

We  give  her  back  again  !  " 

Oh  for  that  same  the  Saints  in  Heaven 

For  his  poor  Soul  shall  pray, 
And  Holy  Mother  wash  with  tears 

His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland, 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  Castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  Lord's  Wife  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


MINUTE   PHILOSOPHIES. 


BY    N.    P.    WILLIS. 


"  Nature  there 

Was  with  thee  ;  she  who  loved  us  both,  she  still 
Was  with  thee  ;  and  even  so  didst  thou  become 
A  silent  poet ;  from  the  solitude 
Of  the  vast  sea  didst  bring  a  watchful  heart 
Still  couchant,  an  inevitable  ear, 
And  an  eye  practised  like  a  blind  man's  touch." 

WORDSWORTH. 

A  SUMMER  or  two  since ,  I  was  wasting  a  college 
vacation  among  the  beautiful  creeks  and  falls  in  the 
neighborhood  of  New  York.  In  the  course  of  my 
wanderings,  up  stream  and  down  stream,  sometimes 
on  foot,  sometimes  on  horseback,  and  never  without 
a  book  for  an  excuse  to  loiter  on  the  mossy  banks, 
and  beside  the  edge  of  running  water,  I  met  fre 
quently  a  young  man  of  a  peculiarly  still  and  col 
lected  eye,  and  a  forehead  more  like  a  broad  slab 
of  marble  than  a  human  brow.  His  mouth  was 
small  and  thinly  cut ;  his  chin  had  no  superfluous 
flesh  upon  it ;  and  his  whole  appearance  was  that 
of  a  man  whose  intellectual  nature  prevailed  over 
the  animal.  He  was  evidently  a  scholar.  We  had 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  45 

met  so  frequently  at  last,  that,  on  passing  each 
other  one  delicious  morning,  we  bowed  and  smiled 
simultaneously,  and,  without  further  introduction, 
entered  into  conversation. 

It  was  a  temperate  day  in  August,  with  a  clear 
but  not  oppressive  sun,  and  we  wandered  down  a 
long  creek  together,  mineralizing  here,  botanizing 
there,  and  examining  the  strata  of  the  ravines, 
with  that  sort  of  instinctive  certainty  of  each 
other's  attainments  which  scholars  always  feel,  and 
thrusting  in  many  a  little  wayside  parenthesis, 
explanatory  of  each  other's  history  and  circum 
stances.  I  found  that  he  was  one  of  those  pure 
and  unambitious  men,  who,  by  close  application 
and  moderate  living  while  in  college,  become  in 
love  with  their  books ;  and,  caring  little  for  any 
thing  more  than  the  subsistence,  which  philosophy 
tells  them  is  enough  to  have  of  this  world,  settle 
down  for  life  into  a  wicker-bottomed  chair,  more 
contentedly  than  if  it  were  the  cushion  of  a 
throne. 

We  were  together  three  or  four  days,  and  when 
I  left  him,  he  gave  me  his  address,  and  promised  to 
write  to  me.  I  shall  give  below  an  extract  from 
one  of  his  letters.  I  had  asked  him  for  a  history 
of  his  daily  habits,  and  any  incidents  which  he 
might  choose  to  throw  in, — hinting  to  him  that  I 
was  a  dabbler  in  literature,  and  would  be  obliged  to 
him  if  he  would  do  it  minutely,  and  in  a  form  of 
which  I  might  avail  myself  in  the  way  of  publi 
cation. 


46  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

After  some  particulars,  unimportant  to  the  reader, 
he  proceeds :  — 

"I  keep  a  room  at  a  country  tavern.  It  is  a 
quiet,  out-of-the-way  place,  with  a  whole  genera 
tion  of  elms  about  it ;  and  the  greenest  grass  up  to 
the  very  door,  and  the  pleasantest  view  in  the 
whole  country  round,  from  my  chamber  window. 
Though  it  is  a  public  house,  and  the  word  i  HOTEL' 
swings  in  golden  capitals  under  a  landscape  of  two 
hills  and  a  river,  painted  for  a  sign  by  some  wan 
dering  Tinto,  it  is  so  orderly  a  town,  that  not  a 
lounger  is  ever  seen  about  the  door ;  and  the  noisi 
est  traveller  is  changed  to  a  quiet  man,  as  if  it  were 
by  the  very  hush  of  the  atmosphere. 

"  Here,  in  my  pleasant  room,  upon  the  second 
floor,  with  my  round  table  covered  with  choice 
books,  my  shutters  closed  just  so  much  as  to  admit 
light  enough  for  a  painter,  and  my  walls  hung  with 
the  pictures  which  adorned  my  college  chambers, 
and  are  therefore  linked  with  a  thousand  delightful 
associations,  —  I  can  study  my  twelve  hours  a  day, 
in  a  state  of  mind  sufficiently  even  and  philosophi 
cal.  I  do  not  want  for  excitement.  The  animal 
spirits,  thanks  to  the  Creator,  are  enough  at  all 
times,  with  employment  and  temperate  living,  to 
raise  us  above  the  common  shadows  of  life ;  and 
after  a  day  of  studious  confinement,  when  my  mind 
is  unbound,  and  I  go  out  and  give  it  up  to  reckless 
association,  and  lay  myself  open  unreservedly  to 
the  influences  of  nature,  —  at  such  a  time,  there 
comes  mysteriously  upon  me  a  degree  of  pure  joy, 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  47 

unmingled  and  unaccountable,  which  is  worth  years 
of  artificial  excitement.  The  common  air  seems  to 
have  grown  rarer ;  my  step  is  strangely  elastic  ;  my 
sense  of  motion  full  of  unwonted  dignity ;  my 
thoughts  elevated  ;  my  perceptions  of  beauty  acuter 
and  more  pleasurable ;  and  my  better  nature  pre 
dominant  and  sublime.  There  is  nothing  in  the 
future  which  looks  difficult,  nothing  in  my  ambition 
unattainable,  nothing  in  the  past  which  cannot  be 
reconciled  with  good :  I  am  a  purer  and  a  better 
man ;  and  though  I  am  elevated  in  my  own 
thoughts,  it  will  not  lead  to  vanity,  for  my  ideas 
of  God,  and  of  my  fellow-men,  have  been  enlarged 
also.  This  excitement  ceases  soon ;  but  it  ceases 
like  the  bubbling  of  a  fountain,  which  leaves  the 
waters  purer  for  the  influence  which  has  passed 
through  them,  —  not  like  the  mirth  of  the  world, 
which  ebbs  like  an  unnatural  tide,  and  leaves  loath 
someness  and  disgust. 

"  Let  no  one  say  that  such  a  mode  of  life  is 
adapted  to  peculiar  constitutions,  and  can  be  relished 
by  those  only.  Give  me  the  veriest  worldling,  — 
the  most  devoted,  and  the  happiest  of  fashionable 
ephemera,  and  if  he  has  material  for  a  thought,  and 
can  take  pride  in  the  improvement  of  his  nature,  I 
will  so  order  his  daily  round,  that,  with  temperance 
and  exercise,  he  shall  be  happier  in  one  hour  spent 
within  himself,  than  in  ten  wasted  on  folly. 

"  Few  know  the  treasures  in  their  own  bosoms,  — 
very  few  the  elasticity  and  capacity  of  a  well-regu 
lated  mind  for  enjoyment.  The  whole  world  of 


48  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

philosophers,  arid  historians,  and  poets,  seem,  to 
the  secluded  student,  but  to  have  labored  for  his 
pleasure  ;  and  as  he  comes  to  one  new  truth  and 
beautiful  thought  after  another,  there  answers  a 
chord  of  joy,  richer  than  music,  in  his  heart, 
which  spoils  him  for  the  coarser  pleasures  of  the 
world.  I  have  seen  my  college  chum,  —  a  man, 
who,  from  a  life  of  mingled  business  and  pleasure, 
became  suddenly  a  student,  —  lean  back  in  his  chair, 
at  the  triumph  of  an  argument,  or  the  discovery  of 
a  philosophical  truth,  and  give  himself  up  for  a  few 
moments  to  the  enjoyment  of  sensations,  which,  he 
assured  me,  surpassed  exceedingly  the  most  vivid 
pleasures  of  his  life.  The  mind  is  like  the  appetite, 
— when  healthy  and  well-toned,  receiving  pleasure 
from  the  commonest  food ;  but  becoming  a  disease, 
when  pampered  and  neglected.  Give  it  time  to 
turn  in  upon  itself,  satisfy  its  restless  thirst  for 
knowledge,  'and  it  will  give  birth  to  health,  to 
animal  spirits,  to  every  thing  which  invigorates  the 
body,  while  it  is  advancing  by  every  step  the  capaci 
ties  of  the  soul.  Oh  !  if  the  runners  after  pleasure 
would  stoop  down  by  the  wayside,  they  might 
drink  waters  better  even  than  those  which  they 
see  only  in  their  dreams.  They  will  not  be  told 
that  they  have  in  their  possession  the  golden  key 
which  they  covet  ;  they  will  not  know  that  the 
music  they  look  to  enchant  them,  is  sleeping  in 
their  own  untouched  instruments ;  that  the  lamp 
which  they  vainly  ask  from  the  enchanter,  is  burn 
ing  in  their  own  bosoms  ! 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  49 

"  When  I  first  came  here,  my  host's  eldest  daugh 
ter  was  about  twelve  years  of  age.  She  was, 
without  being  beautiful,  an  engaging  child,  rather 
disposed  to  be  contemplative,  and,  like  all  children, 
at  that  age,  very  inquisitive  and  curious.  She  was 
shy  at  first,  but  soon  became  acquainted  with  me  ; 
and  would  come  into  my  room  in  her  idle  hours, 
and  look  at  my  pictures  and  read.  She  never  dis 
turbed  me,  because  her  natural  politeness  forbade 
it;  and  I  pursued  my  thoughts  or  my  studies  just 
as  if  she  were  not  there,  till,  by-and-by,  I  grew  fond 
of  her  quiet  company,  and  was  happier  when  she 
was  moving  stealthily  around,  and  looking  into  a 
book  here  and  there  in  her  quiet  way. 

"  She  had  been  my  companion  thus  for  some 
time,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  be  of  use 
to  her  in  leading  her  to  cultivate  a  love  for  study. 
I  seized  the  idea  enthusiastically.  Now,  thought  I, 
I  will  see  the  process  of  a  human  mind.  I  have 
studied  its  philosophy  from  books,  and  now  I  will 
take  a  single  original,  and  compare  them,  step  by 
step.  I  have  seen  the  bud,  arid  the  flower  full 
blown,  and  I  am  told  that  the  change  was  gradual, 
and  effected  thus,  leaf  after  leaf.  Now  I  will 
watch  the  expansion,  and  while  I  water  it  and  let 
in  the  sunshine  to  its  bosom,  detect  the  secret 
springs  which  move  to  such  beautiful  results.  The 
idea  delighted  \ne. 

"  I  was  aware  that  there  was  great  drudgery  in 
the  first  steps,  and  I  determined  to  avoid  it,  and 
connect  the  idea  of  my  own  instruction  with  all 
5 


50  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

that  was  delightful  and  interesting  to  her  mind. 
For  this  purpose  I  persuaded  her  father  to  send  her 
to  a  better  school  than  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
attend,  and,  by  a  little  conversation,  stimulated  her 
to  enter  upon  her  studies  with  alacrity. 

"  She  was  now  grown  to  a  girl,  and  had  begun 
to  assume  the  naive,  womanly  airs  which  girls  do 
at  her  age.  Her  figure  had  rounded  into  a  flowing 
symmetry,  and  her  face,  whether  from  associating 
principally  with  an  older  person,  or  for  what  other 
reason  I  know  not,  had  assumed  a  thoughtful  cast, 
and  she  was  really  a  girl  of  most  interesting  and 
striking  personal  appearance. 

"  I  did  not  expect  much  from  the  first  year  of  my 
experiment.  I  calculated  justly  on  its  being  irk 
some  and  commonplace.  Still  I  was  amused  and 
interested.  I  could  hear  her  light  step  on  the  stair, 
always  at  the  same  early  hour  of  the  evening,  and 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  say  *  Come  in '  to  her 
timid  rap,  and  set  her  a  chair  by  my  own,  that  I 
might  look  over  her  book,  or  talk  in  a  low  tone  to 
her.  I  then  asked  her  about  her  lessons,  and  found 
out  what  had  most  attracted  her  notice,  and  I  could 
always  find  some  interesting  fact  connected  with  it, 
or  strike  off  into  some  pleasant  association,  till  she 
acquired  a  habit  of  selection  in  her  reading,  and 
looked  at  me  earnestly  to  know  what  I  would  say 
upon  it.  You  would  have  smiled  to  see  her  leaning 
forward,  with  her  soft  blue  eye  fixed  on  me,  and 
her  lips  half  parted  with  attention,  waiting  for  my 
ideas  upon  some  bare  fact  in  geography  or  history ; 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  51 

and  it  would  have  convinced  you  that  the  natural, 
unstimulated  mind  takes  pleasure  in  the  simplest 
addition  to  its  knowledge. 

"All  this  time  I  kept  out  of  her  way  every  thing 
that  would  have  a  tendency  to  destroy  a  taste  for 
mere  knowledge,  and  had  the  pleasure  to  see  that 
she  passed  with  keen  relish  from  her  text-books  to 
my  observations,  which  were  as  dry  as  they,  though 
recommended  by  kindness  of  tone  and  an  interested 
manner.  She  acquired  gradually,  by  this  process, 
a  habit  of  reasoning  upon  every  thing  which  admit 
ted  it,  which  was  afterwards  of  great  use  in  fixing 
and  retaining  the  leading  features  of  her  attain 
ments. 

"  I  proceeded  in  this  way  till  she  was  fifteen. 
Her  mind  had  now  become  inured  to  regular  habits 
of  inquiry,  and  she  began  to  ask  difficult  questions 
and  wonder  at  common  things.  Her  thoughts  as 
sumed  a  graver  complexion,  and  she  asked  for  books 
upon  subjects  of  which  she  felt  the  want  of  infor 
mation.  She  was  ready  to  receive  and  appreciate 
truth  and  instruction,  and  here  was  to  begin  my 
pleasure. 

"She  came  up  one  evening  with  an  air  of  embar 
rassment  approaching  to  distress.  She  took  her 
usual  seat,  and  told  me  that  she  had  been  thinking 
all  day  that  it  was  useless  to  study  any  more. 
There  were  so  many  mysterious  things  ;  so  much, 
even  that  she  could  see,  which  she  could  not  ac 
count  for,  and,  with  all  her  efforts,  she  got  on  so 
slowly,  that  she  was  discouraged.  It  was  better, 


52  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

she  said,  to  be  happy  in  ignorance,  than  to  be  con 
stantly  tormented  with  the  sight  of  knowledge  to 
which  she  could  not  attain,  and  which  she  only 
knew  enough  to  value.  Poor  child !  she  did  not 
know  that  she  was  making  the  same  complaint  with 
Newton,  and  Locke,  and  Bacon,  and  that  the  wisest 
of  men  were  only  'gatherers  of  pebbles  on  the 
shore  of  an  illimitable  sea.'  I  began  to  talk  to  her 
of  the  mind.  I  spoke  of  its  grandeur,  and  its  ca 
pacities,  and  its  destiny.  I  told  her  instances  of 
high  attainment  and  wonderful  discovery  ;  sketched 
the  sublime  philosophies  of  the  soul,  the  possi 
bility  that  this  life  was  but  a  link  in  a  chain  of 
existences,  and  the  glorious  power,  if  it  were  true, 
of  entering  upon  another  world,  with  a  loftier  ca 
pacity  than  your  fellow-beings  for  the  comprehen 
sion  of  its  mysteries.  I  then  touched  upon  the 
duty  of  self-cultivation,  the  pride  of  a  high  con 
sciousness  of  improved  time,  and  the  delicious 
feelings  of  self-respect  and  true  appreciation. 

"  She  listened  to  me  in  silence,  and  wept.  It 
was  one  of  those  periods,  which  occur  to  all  delicate 
minds,  of  distrust  and  fear  ;  and  when  it  passed  by, 
and  her  ambition  stirred  again,  she  gave  vent  to  her 
feelings  with  a  woman's  beautiful  privilege.  I  had 
no  more  trouble  to  urge  her  on.  She  began  the  next 
day  with  the  philosophy  of  the  mind,  and  I  was 
never  happier  than  while  following  her  from  step  to 
step  in  this  delightful  study. 

"  I  have  always  thought  that  the  most  triumphant 
intellectual  feeling  we  ever  experience,  is  felt  upon 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  53 

the  first  opening  of  philosophy.  It  is  like  the  inter 
pretation  of  a  dream  of  a  lifetime.  Every  topic 
seems  to  you  like  a  phantom  of  your  own  mind, 
from  which  a  mist  has  suddenly  melted.  Every 
feature  has  a  kind  of  half-familiarity,  and  you  re 
member  musing  upon  it  for  hours,  till  you  gave  it 
up  with  an  impatient  dissatisfaction.  Without  a 
definite  shape,  this  or  that  very  idea  has  floated  in 
your  mind  continually.  It  was  a  phenomenon  with 
out  a  name,  a  something  which  you  could  not 
describe  to  your  friend,  and  which,  by-and-by,  you 
came  to  believe  was  peculiar  to  yourself,  and  would 
never  be  brought  out  or  unravelled.  You  read  on, 
and  the  blood  rushes  to  your  face  in  a  tumultuous 
consciousness  ;  you  have  had  feelings  in  peculiar 
situations  which  you  could  not  define,  and  here  are 
their  very  features ;  and  you  know  now  that  it  was 
jealousy,  or  ambition,  or  love.  There  have  been 
moments  when  your  faculties  seemed  blinded  or  re 
versed.  You  could  not  express  yourself  at  all  when 
you  felt  you  should  be  eloquent.  You  could  not 
fix  your  mind  upon  the  subject,  of  which,  before, 
you  had  been  passionately  fond.  You  felt  an  aver 
sion  for  your  very  partialities,  or  a  strange  warming 
in  your  heart  toward  people  or  pursuits  that  you 
had  disliked ;  and  when  the  beauty  of  the  natural 
world  has  burst  upon  you,  as  it  sometimes  will, 
with  an  exceeding  glory,  you  have  turned  away 
from  it  with  a  deadly  sickness  of  heart,  and  a  wish 
that  you  might  die. 


54  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

"  These  are  mysteries  which  are  not  all  soluble 
even  by  philosophy.  But  you  can  see  enough  of 
the  machinery  of  thought  to  know  its  tendencies  : 
and  like  the  listener  to  mysterious  music,  it  is 
enough  to  have  seen  the  instrument,  without  know 
ing  the  cunning  craft  of  the  player. 

"I  remembered  my  school-day  feelings,  and  lived 
them  over  again  with  my  beautiful  pupil.  I  en 
tered,  with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  she,  into  the 
strength  and  sublimity  which  I  had  wondered  at 
before  ;  and  I  believe  that,  even  as  she  sat  reading 
by  herself,  my  blood  thrilled,  and  my  pulses  quick 
ened,  as  vividly  as  her  own,  when  I  saw,  by  the 
deepening  color  of  her  cheek,  or  the  marked  pas 
sages  of  my  book,  that  she  had  found  a  noble 
thought  or  a  daring  hypothesis. 

"  She  proceeded  with  her  course  of  philosophy 
rapidly  and  eagerly.  Her  mind  was  well  prepared 
for  its  relish.  She  said  she  felt  as  if  a  new  sense 
had  been  given  her,  —  an  inner  eye  which  she  could 
turn  in  upon  herself,  and  by  which  she  could,  as  it 
were,  stand  aside  while  the  process  of  thought  went 
on.  She  began  to  respect  and  to  rely  upon  her  own 
mind,  and  the  elevation  of  countenance  and  man 
ner,  which  so  certainly  and  so  beautifully  accom 
panies  inward  refinement,  stole  over  her  daily.  I 
began  to  feel  respectful  in  her  presence,  and  when, 
with  the  peculiar  elegance  of  a  woman's  mind,  she 
discovered  a  delicate  shade  of  meaning  which  I 
had  not  seen,  or  traced  an  association  which  could 
spring  only  from  an  unsullied  heart,  I  experienced  a 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  55 

sensation  like  the  consciousness  of  an  unseen  pres 
ence,  elevating,  without  alarming  me. 

"  It  was  probably  well  that  with  all  this  change 
in  her  mind  and  manner,  her  person  still  retained 
its  childish  grace  and  flexibility.  She  had  not 
grown  tall,  and  she  wore  her  hair  yet  as  she  used 
to  do,  falling  with  a  luxuriant  fullness  upon  her 
shoulders.  Hence  she  was  still  a  child,  when,  had 
she  been  taller  or  more  womanly,  the  demands  upon 
her  attention,  and  the  attractiveness  of  mature  so 
ciety,  might  have  divided  that  engrossing  interest 
which  is  necessary  to  successful  study. 

"  I  have  often  wished  I  was  a  painter  ;  but  never 
so  much  as  when  looking  on  this  beautiful  being 
as  she  sat  absorbed  in  her  studies,  or  turned  to  gaze 
up  a  moment  to  my  face,  with  that  delicious  ex 
pression  of  inquiry  and  affection.  Every  one  knows 
the  elevation  given  to  the  countenance  of  a  man  by 
contemplative  habits.  Perhaps  the  natural  delicacy 
of  feminine  features  has  combined  with  its  rarity, 
to  make  this  expression  less  observable  in  woman  ; 
but,  to  one  familiar  with  the  study  of  the  human 
face,  there  is,  in  the  look  of  a  truly  intellectual 
woman,  a  keen  subtlety  of  refinement,  a  separation 
from  every  thing  gross  and  material,  which  comes 
up  to  our  highest  dream  of  the  angelic.  For  my 
self,  I  care  not  to  analyze  it.  I  leave  it  to  philoso 
phy  to  find  out  its  secret.  It  is  enough  for  me  that 
I  can  see  and  feel  it  in  every  pulse  of  my  being. 
It  is  not  a  peculiar  susceptibility.  Every  man  who 
approaches  such  a  woman  feels  it.  He  may  not 


56  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

define  it ;  he  may  be  totally  unconscious  what  it 
is  that  awes  him  ;  but  he  feels  as  if  a  mysterious 
and  invisible  veil  were  about  her,  and  every  dark 
thought  is  quenched  suddenly  in  his  heart,  as  if  he 
had  come  into  the  atmosphere  of  a  spirit.  I  would 
have  every  woman  know  this.  I  would  tell  every 
mother  who  prays  nightly  for  the  peculiar  watch 
fulness  of  good  spirits  over  the  purity  of  her  child, 
that  she  may  weave  round  her  a  defence  stronger 
than  steel  ;  that  she  may  place  in  her  heart  a  liv 
ing  amulet,  whose  virtue  is  like  a  circle  of  fire  to 
pollution.  I  am  not  '  stringing  pearls.'  I  have  seen, 
and  I  know,  that  an  empty  mind  is  not  a  strong 
citadel ;  and  in  the  melancholy  chronicle  of  female 
ruin,  the  instances  are  rare  of  victims  distinguished 
for  mental  cultivation.  I  would  my  pen  were  the 
'point  of  a  diamond,'  and  I  were  writing  on  living 
hearts !  for  when  I  think  how  the  daughters  of  a 
house  are  its  grace  and  honor  ;  and  when  I  think 
how  the  father  and  mother  that  loved  her,  and  the 
brother  that  made  her  his  pride,  and  the  sister  in 
whose  bosom  she  slept,  are  all  crushed  utterly,  by 
a  daughter's  degradation,  I  feel,  that  if  every  word 
were  a  burning  coal,  my  language  could  not  be 
extravagant ! 

"  My  pupil  had,  as  yet,  read  no  poetry.  I  wag 
uncertain  how  to  enter  upon  it.  Her  taste  for  the 
beautiful  in  prose  had  become  so  decided,  that  I 
feared  for  the  first  impression  of  my  poetical  world. 
I  wished  it  to  burst  upon  her  brilliantly,  like  the 
entrance  to  an  inner  and  more  magnificent  temple 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  57 

of  knowledge.  I  hoped  to  dazzle  her  with  a  high 
and  unimagined  beauty,  which  should  exceed  far 
the  massive  but  plain  splendors  of  philosophy.  We 
had  often  conversed  on  the  probability  of  a  pre 
vious  existence,  and  one  evening  I  opened  Words 
worth,  and  read  his  sublime  '  Ode  upon  Intimations 
of  Immortality.'  She  did  not  interrupt  me,  but  I 
looked  up  at  the  conclusion,  and  she  was  in  tears. 
I  made  no  remark,  but  took  up  Byron,  and  read  some 
of  the  finest  passages  in  Childe  Harold,  and  Man 
fred,  and  Cain,  and,  from  that  time,  poetry  has 
been  her  world ! 

"It  would  not  have  been  so  earlier.  It  needs  the 
simple  and  strong  nutriment  of  truth  to  fit  us 
to  relish  and  feel  poetry.  The  mind  must  have 
strength  and  cultivated  taste,  and  then  it  is  like  a 
language  from  Heaven.  We  are  astonished  at  its 
power  and  magnificence.  We  have  been  familiar 
with  knowledge  as  with  a  person  of  plain  garment 
and  a  homely  presence,  and  he  comes  to  us  in 
poetry,  with  the  state  of  a  king,  glorious  in  purple 
and  gold.  We  have  known  him  as  an  unassuming 
friend  who  talked  with  us  by  the  wayside,  and 
kept  us  company  on  our  familiar  paths  j  and  we 
see  him  coming  with  a  stately  step,  and  a  glittering 
diadem  on  his  brow ;  and  we  wonder  that  we  did 
not  see  that  his  plain  garment  honored  him  not,  and 
his  bearing  were  fitter  for  a  king ! 

"  Poetry  entered  to  the  very  soul  of  Caroline 
Grey.  It  was  touching  an  unreached  string,  and 
she  felt  as  if  the  whole  compass  of  her  heart  were 


58  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

given  out.  I  used  to  read  to  her  for  hours,  and  it 
was  beautiful  to  see  her  eye  kindle,  and  her  cheek 
burn  with  excitement.  The  sublimed  mysticism 
and  spirituality  of  Wordsworth  were  her  delight, 
and  she  feasted  upon  the  deep  philosophy  and  half- 
hidden  tenderness  of  Coleridge. 

"  I  had  observed,  with  some  satisfaction,  that,  in 
the  rapid  development  of  her  mental  powers,  she 
had  not  found  time  to  study  nature.  She  knew 
little  of  the  character  of  the  material  creation,  and 
I  now  commenced  walking  constantly  abroad  with 
her  at  sunset,  and  at  all  the  delicious  seasons  of 
moonlight,  and  starlight,  and  dawn.  It  came  in 
well  with  her  poetry.  I  cannot  describe  the  effect. 
She  became,  like  all  who  are,  for  the  first  time, 
made  sensible  of  the  glories  around  them,  a  wor 
shipper  of  the  external  world. 

"  There  is  a  time  when  nature  first  loses  its  famil 
iarity,  and  seems  suddenly  to  have  become  beautiful. 
This  is  true  even  of  those  who  have  been  taught 
early  habits  of  observation.  The  mind  of  a  child 
is  too  feeble  to  comprehend,  and  does  not  soon  learn, 
the  scale  of  sublimity  and  beauty.  He  would  not 
be  surprised  if  the  sun  were  brighter,  or  if  the  stars 
were  sown  thicker  in  the  sky.  He  sees  that  the 
flower  is  beautiful,  and  he  feels  admiration  at  the 
rainbow ;  but  he  would  not  wonder  if  the  dyes  of 
the  flower  were  deeper,  or  if  the  sky  were  laced  to 
the  four  corners  with  the  colors  of  a  prism.  He 
grows  up  with  these  splendid  phenomena  at  work 
about  him,  till  they  have  become  common,  and,  in 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  59 

their  most  wonderful  forms,  cease  to  attract  his 
attention.  Then  his  senses  are  suddenly,  as  by  an 
invisible  influence,  unsealed,  and,  like  the  proselyte 
of  the  Egyptian  pyramids,  he  finds  himself  in  a 
magnificent  temple,  and  hears  exquisite  music,  and 
is  dazzled  by  surpassing  glory.  He  never  recovers 
his  indifference.  The  perpetual  changes  of  nature 
keep  alive  his  enthusiasm,  and  if  his  taste  is  not 
dulled  by  subsequent  debasement,  the  pleasure  he 
receives  from  it  flows  on  like  a  stream,  wearing 
deeper  and  calmer. 

"  Caroline  became  now  my  constant  companion. 
The  changes  of  the  natural  world  have  always  been 
my  chief  source  of  happiness,  and  I  was  curious  to 
know  whether  my  different  sensations,  under  dif 
ferent  circumstances,  were  peculiar  to  myself.  I 
left  her,  therefore,  to  lead  the  conversation,  without 
any  expression  of  my  feelings,  and,  to  my  surprise 
and  delight,  she  invariably  struck  their  tone,  and 
pursued  the  same  vein  of  reflection.  It  convinced 
me  of  what  I  had  long  thought  might  be  true  j 
that  there  was,  in  the  varieties  of  natural  beauty,  a 
hidden  meaning,  and  a  delightful  purpose  of  good ; 
and,  if  I  am  not  deceived,  it  is  a  new  and  beautiful 
evidence  of  the  proportion  and  extent  of  God's 
benevolent  wisdom.  Thus,  you  may  remember 
the  peculiar  effect  of  the  early  dawn ;  the  deep, 
unruffled  serenity,  and  the  perfect  collectedness  of 
your  senses.  •  You  may  remember  the  remarkable 
purity  that  pervades  the  stealing  in  of  color,  and 
the  vanishing  of  the  cold  shadows  of  gray ;  the 


60  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

heavenly  quiet  that  seems  infused,  like  a  visible 
spirit,  into  the  pearly  depths  of  the  east,  as  the 
light  violet  tints  become  deeper  in  the  upper  sky, 
and  the  morning  mist  rises  up  like  a  veil  of  silvery 
film,  and  softens  away  its  intensity  ;  and  then  you 
will  remember  how  the  very  beatings  of  your  heart 
grew  quiet,  and  you  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
pray  !  There  was  no  irregular  delight,  no  indefinite 
sensation,  no  ecstasy.  It  was  deep,  unbroken  re 
pose,  and  your  pulses  were  free  from  the  fever  of 
life,  and  your  reason  was  lying  awake  in  its  cham 
ber. 

"  There  is  a  hush  also  at  noon ;  but  it  is  not  like 
the  morning.  You  have  been  mingling  in  the  busi 
ness  of  the  world,  and  you  turn  aside,  weary  and 
distracted  for  rest.  There  is  a  far  depth,  in  the 
intense  blue  of  the  sky  which  takes  in  the  spirit, 
and  you  are  content  to  lie  down  and  sleep  in  the 
cool  shadow,  and  forget  even  your  existence.  How 
different  from  the  cool  wakefulness  of  the  morning, 
and  yet  how  fitted  for  the  necessity  of  the  hour ! 

"  The  day  wears  on  arid  comes  to  the  sunsetting. 
The  strong  light  passes  off  from  the  hills,  and  the 
leaves  are  mingled  in  golden  masses,  and  the  tips  of 
the  long  grass,  and  the  blades  of  maize,  and  the  luxu 
riant  grain,  are  all  sleeping  in  a  rich  glow,  as  if  the 
daylight  had  melted  into  gold  and  descended  upon 
every  living  thing  like  dew.  The  sun  goes  down, 
and  there  is  a  tissue  of  indescribable  glory  floating 
upon  the  clouds,  and  the  almost  imperceptible 
blending  of  the  sunset  color  with  the  blue  sky,  is 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  61 

far  up  toward  the  zenith.  Presently  the  pomp  of 
the  early  sunset  passes  away ;  and  the  clouds  are 
all  clad  in  purple,  with  edges  of  metallic  lustre  ;  and 
very  far  in  the  west,  as  if  they  were  sailing  away 
into  another  world,  are  seen  spots  of  intense  bright 
ness,  and  the  tall  trees  on  the  hilly  edge  of  the 
horizon  seem  piercing  the  sky,  on  fire  with  its  con 
suming  heat.  There  is  a  tumultuous  joy  in  the 
contemplation  of  this  hour,  which  is  peculiar  to 
itself.  You  feel  as  if  you  should  have  had  wings ; 
for  there  is  a  strange  stirring  in  your  heart  to  follow 
on ;  and  your  imagination  bursts  away  into  that 
beautiful  world,  and  revels  among  the  unsubstantial 
clouds  till  they  become  cold.  It  is  a  triumphant 
and  extravagant  hour.  Its  joyousness  is  an  intoxi 
cation,  and  its  pleasure  dies  with  the  day. 

"  The  night,  starry  and  beautiful,  comes  on.  The 
sky  has  a  blue,  intense  almost  to  blackness,  and  the 
stars  are  set  in  it  like  gems.  They  are  of  different 
glory,  and  there  are  some  that  burn,  and  some  that 
have  a  twinkling  lustre,  and  some  are  just  visible 
and  faint.  You  know  their  nature,  and  their 
motion ;  and  there  is  something  awful  in  so  many 
worlds  moving  on  through  the  firmament  so  silently 
and  in  order.  You  feel  an  indescribable  awe  steal 
ing  upon  you,  and  your  imagination  trembles  as  it 
goes  up  among  them.  You  gaze  on,  and  on,  and  the 
superstitions  of  olden  time,  and  the  wild  visions  of 
astrology,  steal  over  your  memory,  till,  by-and-by, 
you  hear  the  music  which  they  i  give  out  as  they 
go,'  and  drink  in  the  mysteries  of  their  hidden 
6 


62  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

meaning,  and  believe  that  your  destiny  is  woven 
by  their  burning  spheres.  There  comes  on  you  a 
delirious  joy,  and  a  kind  of  terrible  fellowship  with 
their  sublime  nature,  and  you  feel  as  if  you  could 
go  up  to  a  starry  place  and  course  the  heavens  in 
company.  There  is  a  spirituality  in  this  hour,  a 
separation  from  material  things,  which  is  of  a  fine 
order  of  happiness.  The  purity  of  the  morning, 
and  the  noontide  quietness,  and  the  rapture  of  the 
glorious  sunset,  are  all  human  and  comprehensible 
feelings ;  but  this  has  the  mystery  and  the  lofty 
energy  of  a  higher  world,  and  you  return  to  your 
human  nature  with  a  refreshed  spirit  and  an  eleva 
ted  purpose :  see  now  the  wisdom  of  God !  the 
collected  intellect  for  the  morning  prayer  and  our 
daily  duty  •  the  delicious  repose  for  our  noontide 
weariness  j  and  the  rapt  fervor  to  purify  us  by 
night  from  our  worldliness,  and  keep  wakeful  the 
eye  of  immortality !  They  are  all  suited  to  our 
need ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  think,  when  we  go  out 
at  this  or  that  season,  that  its  peculiar  beauty  is 
fitted  to  our  peculiar  wants,  and  that  it  is  not  a 
chance  harmony  of  our  hearts  with  nature. 

"  The  world  had  become  to  Caroline  a  new  place. 
No  change  in  the  season  was  indifferent  to  her  ; 
nothing  was  common  or  familiar.  She  found  beauty 
in  things  you  would  pass  by,  and  a  lesson  for  her 
mind  or  her  heart  in  the  minutest  workmanship  of 
nature.  Her  character  assumed  a  cheerful  dignity, 
and  an  elevation  above  ordinary  amusements  or 
annoyances.  She  was  equable  and  calm,  because 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  63 

her  feelings  were  never  reached  by  ordinary  irrita 
tions  ;  and,  if  there  were  no  other  benefit  in  culti 
vation,  this  were  almost  argument  enough  to  induce 
it. 

"It  is  now  five  years  since  I  commenced  my 
tutorship.  I  have  given  you  the  history  of  two  of 
them.  In  the  remaining  three  there  has  been  much 
that  has  interested  my  mind ;  probably  little  that 
would  interest  yours.  We  have  read  together,  and, 
as  far  as  possible,  studied  together.  She  has  walked 
with  me,  and  shared  all  my  leisure,  and  known 
every  thought.  She  is  now  a  woman  of  eighteen. 
Her  childish  graces  are  matured,  and  her  blue  eye 
would  send  a  thrill  through  you.  You  might  object 
to  her  want  of  fashionable  tournure,  and  find  fault 
with  her  unfashionable  impulses.  I  do  not.  She 
is  a  high-minded,  noble,  impassioned  being,  with 
an  enthusiasm  that  is  not  without  reason,  and  a 
common  sense  that  is  not  a  regard  to  self-interest. 
Her  motion  was  not  learned  at  schools,  but  it  is 
unembarrassed  and  free ;  and  her  tone  has  not 
been  educated  to  a  refined  whisper,  but  it  expresses 
the  meaning  of  her  heart,  as  if  its  very  pulse  had 
become  articulate.  The  many  might  not  admire 
her ;  I  know  she  would  be  idolized  by  the  few. 

"  Our  intercourse  is  as  intimate  still ;  and  it  could 
not  change  without  being  less  so,  for  we  are  con 
stantly  together.  There  is  —  to  be  sure  —  lately  — 
a  slight  degree  of  embarrassment  —  and  —  some 
how  —  we  read  more  poetry  than  we  used  to  do  — 
but  it  is  nothing  at  all  —  nothing." 


64  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

My  friend  was  married  to  his  pupil  a  few  months 
after  writing  the  foregoing.  He  has  written  to  me 
since,  and  I  will  show  you  the  letter  if  you  will 
call,  any  time.  It  will  not  do  to  print  it,  because 
there  are  some  domestic  details  not  proper  for  the 
general  eye ;  but,  to  me,  who  am  a  bachelor,  bent 
upon  matrimony,  it  is  interesting  to  the  last  degree. 
He  lives  the  same  quiet,  retired  life,  that  he  did 
before  he  was  married.  His  room  is  arranged  with 
the  same  taste,  and  with  reference  to  the  same 
habits  as  before.  The  light  comes  in  as  timidly 
through  the  half-closed  window,  and  his  pictures 
look  as  shadowy  and  dim,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
turned  leaf  adds  as  mysteriously  to  the  silence.  He 
is  the  fondest  of  husbands,  but  his  affection  does 
not  encroach  on  the  habits  of  his  mind.  Now  and 
then  he  looks  up  from  his  book,  and,  resting  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  lets  his  eye  wander  over  the 
pale  cheek  and  drooping  lid  of  the  beautiful  being 
who  sits  reading  beside  him  ;  but  he  soon  returns 
to  his  half-forgotten  page,  and  the  smile  of  affection 
which  had  stolen  over  his  features  fades  gradually 
away  into  the  habitual  soberness  of  thought.  There 
sits  his  wife,  hour  after  hour,  in  the  same  chair 
which  she  occupied  when  she  first  carne,  a  curious 
loiterer  to  his  room  ;  and  though  she  does  not  study 
so  much,  because  other  cares  have  a  claim  upon  her 
now,  she  still  keeps  pace  with  him  in  the  pleasanter 
branches  of  knowledge,  and  they  talk  as  often  and 
as  earnestly  as  before  on  the  thousand  topics  of  a 
scholar's  contemplation.  Her  cares  may  and  will 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  65 

multiply  j  but  she  understands  the  economy  of  time, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that,  with  every  attention  to 
her  daily  duties,  she  will  find  ample  time  for  her 
mind,  and  be  always  as  well  fitted  as  now  for  the 
companionship  of  an  intellectual  being. 

I  have,  like  all  bachelors,  speculated  a  great  deal 
upon  matrimony.  I  have  seen  young  and  beautiful 
women,  the  pride  of  gay  circles,  married,  as  the 
world  said,  well !  Some  have  moved  into  costly 
houses,  and  their  friends  have  all  come  and  looked 
at  their  fine  furniture  and  their  splendid  arrange 
ments  for  happiness,  and  they  have  gone  away  and 
committed  them  to  their  sunny  hopes,  cheerfully, 
and  without  fear.  It  is  natural  to  be  sanguine  for 
the  young,  and,  at  such  times,  I  am  carried  away 
by  similar  feelings.  I  love  to  get  unobserved  into 
a  corner,  and  watch  the  bride  in  her  white  attire, 
and  with  her  smiling  face  and  her  soft  eyes  moving 
before  me  in  their  pride  of  life,  weave  a  waking 
dream  of  her  future  happiness,  and  persuade  myself 
that  it  will  be  true.  I  think  how  they  will  sit  upon 
that  luxurious  sofa  as  the  twilight  falls,  and  build 
gay  hopes,  and  murmur  in  low  tones  the  now  unfor- 
bidden  tenderness  j  and  how  thrillingly  the  allowed 
kiss  and  the  beautiful  endearments  of  wedded  life, 
will  make  even  their  parting  joyous,  and  how  gladly 
they  will  come  back  from  the  crowd  and  the  empty 
mirth  of  the  gay,  to  each  other's  quiet  company.  I 
picture  to  myself  that  young  creature,  who  blushes, 
even  now  at  his  hesitating  caress,  listening  eagerly 
for  his  footsteps  as  the  night  steals  on,  and  wishing 


66  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

that  he  would  come ;  and  when  he  enters  at  last, 
and,  with  an  affection  as  undying  as  his  pulse,  folds 
her  to  his  bosom,  I  can  feel  the  very  tide  that  goes 
flowing  through  his  heart,  and  gaze  with  him  on 
her  graceful  form  as  she  moves  about  him  for  the 
kind  offices  of  affection,  soothing  all  his  unquiet 
cares,  and  making  him  forget  even  himself,  in  her 
young  and  unshadowed  beauty. 

I  go  forward  for  years,  and  see  her  luxuriant  hair 
put  soberly  away  from  her  brow,  and  her  girlish 
graces  ripened  into  dignity,  and  her  bright  loveliness 
chastened  with  the  gentle  meekness  of  maternal 
affection.  Her  husband  looks  on  her  with  a  proud 
eye,  and  shows  the  same  fervent  love  and  delicate 
attention  which  first  won  her  j  and  fair  children  are 
growing  up  about  them,  and  they  go  on,  full  of 
honor  and  untroubled  years,  and  are  remembered 
when  they  die ! 

I  say  I  love  to  dream  thus  when  I  go  to  give  the 
young  bride  joy.  It  is  the  natural  tendency  of 
feelings  touched  by  loveliness  that  fears  nothing  for 
itself,  and,  if  I  ever  yield  to  darker  feelings,  it  is 
because  the  light  of  the  picture  is  changed.  I  am 
not  fond  of  dwelling  on  such  changes,  and  I  will 
not,  minutely,  now.  I  allude  to  it  only  because  I 
trust  that  my  simple  page  will  be  read  by  some  of 
the  young  and  beautiful  beings  who  move  daily 
across  my  path,  and  I  would  whisper  to  them  as 
they  glide  by,  joyously  and  confidingly,  the  secret 
of  an  unclouded  future. 

The  picture  I  have  drawn  above  is  not  peculiar. 


MINUTE    PHILOSOPHIES.  67 

It  is  colored  like  the  fancies  of  the  bride  ;  and 
many,  oh  many  an  hour  will  she  sit,  with  her 
rich  jewels  lying  loose  in  her  fingers,  and  dream 
such  dreams  as  these.  She  believes  them,  too, 
and  she  goes  on,  for  a  while,  undeceived.  The 
evening  is  not  too  long  while  they  talk  of  their 
plans  for  happiness,  and  the  quiet  meal  is  still  plea 
sant  with  the  delightful  novelty  of  mutual  reliance 
and  attention.  There  comes  soon,  however,  a  time 
when  personal  topics  become  bare  and  wearisome, 
and  slight  attentions  will  not  alone  keep  up  the 
social  excitement.  There  are  long  intervals  of 
silence,  arid  detected  symptoms  of  weariness,  and 
the  husband,  first  in  his  impatient  manhood,  breaks 
in  upon  the  hours  they  were  to  spend  together. 
I  cannot  follow  it  circumstantially.  There  come 
long  hours  of  unhappy  listlessness,  and  terrible  mis 
givings  of  each  other's  worth  and  affection,  till,  by- 
and-by,  they  can  conceal  their  uneasiness  no  longer, 
and  go  out  separately  to  seek  relief,  and  lean  upon 
a  hollow  world  for  the  support  which  one  who  was 
their  "  lover  and  friend  "  could  not  give  them ! 

Heed  this,  ye  who  are  winning,  by  your  innocent 
beauty,  the  affections  of  highminded  and  thinking 
beings  !  Remember  that  he  will  give  up  the  brother 
of  his  heart  with  whom  he  has  had,  ever,  a  fellow 
ship  of  mind ;  the  society  of  his  contemporary 
runners  in  the  race  of  fame,  who  have  held  with 
him  a  stern  companionship ;  and  frequently,  in  his 
passionate  love,  he  will  break  away  from  the  arena 
of  his  burning  ambition,  to  come  and  listen  to  the 


68  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

"  voice  of  the  charmer."  It  will  bewilder  him  at 
first,  but  it  will  not  long  ;  and  then,  think  you  that 
an  idle  blandishment  will  chain  the  mind  that  has 
been  used,  for  years,  to  an  equal  communion? 
Think  you  he  will  give  up,  for  a  weak  dalliance, 
the  animating  themes  of  men,  and  the  search  into 
the  fine  mysteries  of  knowledge  ?  Oh  no,  lady, 
believe  me  —  no !  Trust  not  your  influence  to 
such  light  fetters !  Credit  not  the  old-fashioned 
absurdity  that  woman's  is  a  secondary  lot  —  minis 
tering  to  the  necessities  of  her  lord  and  master  !  It 
is  a  higher  destiny  I  would  award  you.  If  your 
immortality  is  as  complete,  and  your  gift  of  mind 
as  capable  as  ours  of  increase  and  elevation,  I  would 
put  no  wisdom  of  mine  against  God's  evident  allot 
ment.  I  would  charge  you  to  water  the  undying 
bud,  and  give  it  healthy  culture,  and  open  its  beauty 
to  the  sun ;  and  then  you  may  hope,  that  when 
your  life  is  bound  up  with  another,  you  will  go  on 
equally,  and  in  a  fellowship  that  shall  pervade  every 
earthly  interest. 


MORNING   AND   NIGHT. 


BY    HARRIET    WINSLOW. 

SHE  comes !  the  universe  awakes  to  greet  her, 
With  rapturous  joy  the  heart  of  nature  thrills, 

Bright  thoughts  and  buoyant  hopes  leap  forth  to  meet  her. 
And  life,  at  her  warm  glance,  the  faint  heart  fills. 

The  heavens  reflect  the  azure  of  her  eye, 

The  earth  gives  back  her  sweet  and  radiant  smile, 

The  winds  and  waters  to  her  voice  reply, 

And  chant  the  measure  of  her  step  the  while. 

Her  airy  foot-falls  scarcely  brush  the  dews, 

And  leave,  where'er  they  light,  a  greener  trace, 

Her  radiant  eyes  give  to  the  flowers  their  hues, 

Her  breath  their  fragrance,  and  her  touch  their  grace. 

Her  lustrous  hair  has  caught  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
And  robbed  them  of  their  gay  and  golden  store ; 

The  rainbow  she  has  rifled,  and  it  seems, 
Enrobing  her,  to  win  one  grace  the  more. 


70  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Darkness  and  sin,  beneath  her  searching  glances, 
Shrink  swiftly,  cowering  and  abashed  away, 

And  fear  and  cankering  care,  as  she  advances, 
Vanish  like  phantoms  that  avoid  the  day. 

She  passes  on,  and  ever  in  her  train 
Follows  a  joyous  troop  of  rosy  hours  ; 

O'er  pride  and  luxury,  misery  and  pain, 

O'er  rich  and  poor  alike,  her  wealth  she  showers. 

She  stops  not  at  the  mansions  of  the  great, 
She  gladdens  the  poor  sinner's  lonely  cell, 

She  lights  the  lowly  hut,  the  halls  of  state, 
And  lingers  fondly  where  her  lovers  dwell. 

Gently  she  passes  from  the  world  away, 

And  the  earth  seems  a  shade  less  fair  and  young, 

Yet  memory  of  her,  throughout  the  day, 
Speeds  lightly  all  the  after  hours  along. 

But  daylight  dies,  and  lo !  a  loftier  presence 

Fills  the  green  courts  where  late  her  reign  has  been 

Her  subjects  all  forsake  their  old  allegiance, 
And  offer  homage  to  a  rival  queen. 

She  comes  not,  like  her  younger  sister,  calling 
The  world  to  welcome  her  with  song  and  dance  ; 

Lightly  and  noiselessly  her  steps  are  falling, 

And  the  awed  earth  is  hushed  beneath  her  glance. 

A  holier  radiance  lights  her  earnest  eye, 
A  heavenly  halo  crowns  her  paler  brow, 

The  sense  was  then  a  captive  willingly, 

The  soul  bows  down  with  deeper  reverence  now. 


MORNING    AND    NIGHT.  71 

The  moon  and  stars  attend  her  on  her  way, 
And,  by  their  pale  and  mystic  light,  reveal 

The  grace  her  every  motion  doth  betray, 

The  form  her  shadowy  robes  would  fain  conceal. 

At  her  approach  the  flowers,  still  bending  low, 
Incline  their  graceful  heads  in  silent  prayer, 

And  while  her  gentle  hands  sweet  dews  bestow, 
Their  fragrant  lips  anoint  her  trailing  hair. 

She  brings  dear  visions  to  the  homesick  mind, 
And  welcome  rest  to  the  overwearied  limbs, 

She  gives  a  foretaste  of  those  realms  divine, 
Whose  glory  and  whose  purity  she  hymns. 

Like  some  sweet  strain  of  music  sad  and  low, 
Her  presence  moves  the  inmost  soul,  and  seems 

To  waken  memories  of  long  ago, 

To  image  the  beloved  we  meet  in  dreams. 

All  high  and  holy  mysteries  attend  her, 

All  gentle  influences  round  her  throng, 
And  spiritual  beings  freely  lend  her 

The  glories  that  to  their  own  spheres  belong. 

Kind  angel !  without  thy  alternate  reign, 
Morn  were  no  longer  beautiful  and  bright, 

Her  sunniest  smile  and  glance,  her  sweetest  strai 
Her  dearest  spell  she  owes  to  thee,  O  Night ! 


THE  SOLITARY   OF  SHAWMUT. 


BY    J.    L.    MOTLEY. 

A  SOLITARY  figure  sat  upon  the  summit  of  Shaw- 
mut.  He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty  years  of  age. 
somewhat  above  the  middle  height,  slender  in  form, 
with  a  pale,  thoughtful  face.  He  wore  a  confused, 
dark-colored,  half-canonical  dress,  with  a  gray, 
broad-leaved  hat  strung  with  shells,  like  an  ancient 
palmer's,  and  slouched  back  from  his  pensive  brow, 
around  which  his  prematurely  gray  hair  fell  in 
heavy  curls,  far  down  upon  his  neck.  He  had  a 
wallet  at  his  side,  a  hammer  in  his  girdle,  and  a 
long  staff  in  his  hand.  The  hermit  of  Shawmut 
looked  out  upon  a  scene  of  winning  beauty.  The 
promontory  resembled  rather  two  islands  than  a 
peninsula,  although  it  was  anchored  to  the  conti 
nent  by  a  long  slender  thread  of  land,  which  seemed 
hardly  to  restrain  it  from  floating  out  to  join  its 
sister  islands,  which  were  thickly  strewn  about  the 
bay.  The  peak  upon  which  the  hermit  sat  was 
the  highest  of  the  three  cliffs  of  the  peninsula  : 
upon  the  south-east,  and  very  near  him,  rose  an 
other  hill  of  lesser  height  and  more  rounded  form. 


THE    SOLITARY    OF    SHAWMUT.  73 

and  upon  the  other  side,  and  towards  the  north,  a 
third  craggy  peak  presented  its  bold  and  elevated 
front  to  the  ocean.  Thus  the  whole  peninsula  was 
made  up  of  three  lofty  crags.  It  was  from  this 
triple  conformation  of  the  promontory  of  Shawmut, 
that  was  derived  the  appellation  of  Trimountain,  or 
Tremont,  which  it  soon  afterwards  received. 

The  vast  conical  shadows  were  projected  east- 
wardly,  as  the  hermit,  with  his  back  to  the  declining 
sun,  looked  out  upon  the  sea. 

The  bay  was  spread  out  at  his  feet  in  a  broad  semi 
circle,  with  its  extreme  headlands  vanishing  in  the 
hazy  distance,  while  beyond  rolled  the  vast  expanse 
of  ocean,  with  no  spot  of  habitable  earth  beyond 
those  outermost  barriers,  and  that  far  distant  father 
land,  which  the  exile  had  left  forever.  Not  a 
solitary  sail  whitened  those  purple  waves,  and 
saving  the  wing  of  the  sea-gull,  which  now  and 
then  flashed  in  the  sunshine,  or  gleamed  across  the 
dimness  of  the  eastern  horizon,  the  solitude  was  at 
the  moment  unbroken  by  a  single  movement  of 
animated  nature.  An  intense  and  breathless  silence 
enwrapped  the  scene  with  a  vast  and  mystic  veil. 
The  bay  presented  a  spectacle  of  great  beauty.  It 
was  not  that  the  outlines  of  the  coast  around  it 
were  broken  into  those  jagged  and  cloud-like 
masses,  that  picturesque  and  startling  scenery, 
where  precipitous  crag,  infinite  abyss,  and  roaring 
surge  unite  to  awaken  stern  and  sublime  emotions  ; 
on  the  contrary,  the  gentle  loveliness  of  this  trans 
atlantic  scene  inspired  a  soothing  melancholy,  more 
7 


74  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

congenial  to  the  contemplative  character  of  its 
solitary  occupant.  The  bay,  secluded  within  its 
forest-crowned  hills,  decorated  with  its  necklace  of 
emerald  islands,  with  its  dark  blue  waters  gilded 
with  the  rays  of  the  western  sun,  and  its  shadowy 
forests  of  unknown  antiquity,  expanding  into  infi 
nite  depths  a.round,  was  an  image  of  fresh  and 
virgin  beauty,  a  fitting  type  of  a  new  world,  una 
dorned  by  art,  unploughed  by  industry,  unscathed 
by  war,  wearing  none  of  the  thousand  priceless 
jewels  of  civilization,  and  unpolluted  by  its  thou 
sand  crimes  —  springing,  as  it  were,  from  the  bosom 
of  the  ocean,  cool,  dripping,  sparkling,  and  fresh 
from  the  hand  of  its  Creator. 

On  the  left,  as  the  pilgrim  sat  with  his  face  to  the 
east,  the  outlines  of  the  coast  were  comparatively 
low,  but  broken  into  gentle  and  pleasing  forms. 
Immediately  at  his  feet  lay  a  larger  island,  in  extent 
nearly  equal  to  the  peninsula  of  Shawmut,  covered 
with  mighty  forest  trees,  and,  at  that  day,  unten- 
anted  by  a  human  being,  although  but  a  short  time 
afterwards  it  became  the  residence  of  a  distin 
guished  pioneer.  Outside  this  bulwark,  a  chain  of 
thickly  wooded  islets,  stretched  across  from  shore 
to  shore,  with  but  one  or  two  narrow  channels 
between,  presenting  a  picturesque  and  effectual 
barrier  to  the  boisterous  storms  of  ocean.  They 
seemed  like  naiads,  those  islets  lifting  above  the 
billows  their  gentle  heads,  crowned  with  the  bud 
ding  garlands  of  the  spring,  and  circling  hand  in 
hand,  like  protective  deities  about  the  scene. 


THE    SOLITARY    OF    SHAWMUT.  75 

On  the  south,  beyond  the  narrow  tongue  of  land, 
which  bound  the  peninsula  to  the  main,  and  which 
was  so  slender  that  the  spray  from  the  eastern  side 
was  often  dashed  across  it  into  the  calmer  cove  of 
the  west,  rose  in  the  immediate  distance,  that  long, 
boldly  broken,  purple-colored  ridge,  called  the  Mas 
sachusetts,  or  Mount  Arrow  Head,  by  the  natives, 
and  by  the  first  English  discoverer  baptized  the 
Cheviot  Hills.  On  their  left,  and  within  the  deep 
curve  of  the  coast,  were  the  slightly  elevated 
heights  of  Passanogessit  or  Merry-Mount,  and  on 
their  right  stretched  the  broad  forest,  hill  beyond 
hill,  away.  Towards  the  west  and  north-west,  the 
eye  wandered  over  a  vast  undulating  panorama  of 
gently  rolling  heights,  upon  whose  summits  the 
gigantic  pine  forests,  with  their  towering  tops 
piercing  the  clouds,  were  darkly  shadowed  upon 
the  western  sky,  while  in  the  dim  distance,  far 
above  and  beyond  the  whole,  visible  only  through 
a  cloudless  atmosphere,  rose  the  airy  summits  of 
the  Wachusett,  Watatick,  and  Monadnock  Moun 
tains.  Upon  the  inland  side,  at  the  base  of  the  hill, 
the  Q,uinobequin  River,  which  Smith  had  already 
christened  with  the  royal  name  of  his  unhappy 
patron,  Charles,  might  be  seen  writhing  in  its  slow 
and  tortuous  course,  like  a  wounded  serpent,  till  it 
lost  itself  in  the  blue  and  beautiful  cove  which 
spread  around  the  whole  western  edge  of  the  pen 
insula,  and  within  the  same  basin,  directly  opposite 
the  northern  peak  of  Shawmut,  advanced  the  bold 
and  craggy  promontory  of  Mishawum,  where  Wai- 


76  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

ford,  the  solitary  smith,  had  built  his  thatched  and 
palisaded  house.  The  blue  thread  of  the  River 
Mystic,  which  here  mingled  its  waters  with  the 
Charles,  gleamed  for  a  moment  beyond  the  heights 
of  Mishawum,  and  then  vanished  into  the  frowning 
forest. 

Such  was  the  scene,  upon  a  bright  afternoon  of 
spring,  which  spread  before  the  eyes  of  the  solitary 
William  Blaxton,  the  hermit  of  Shawmut.  It  was 
a  simple  but  sublime  image,  that  gentle  exile  in  his 
sylvan  solitude.  It  was  a  simple  but  sublime 
thought,  which  placed  him  and  sustained  him  in 
his  lone  retreat.  In  all  ages,  there  seem  to  exist 
men  who  have  no  appointed  place  in  the  world. 
They  are  before  their  age  in  their  aspirations,  above 
it  in  their  contemplation,  but  behind  it  in  their 
capacity  for  action.  Keen  to  detect  the  follies  and 
the  inconsistencies  which  surround  them,  shrinking 
from  the  contact  and  the  friction  of  the  rough  and 
boisterous  world  without,  and  building  within  the 
solitude  of  their  meditations  the  airy  fabric  of  a 
regenerated  and  purified  existence,  they  pass  their 
nights  in  unproductive  study,  and  their  days  in 
dreams.  With  intelligence  bright  and  copious 
enough  to  illuminate  and  to  warm  the  chill  atmos 
phere  of  the  surrounding  world,  if  the  scattered 
rays  were  concentrated,  but  with  an  inability  or 
disinclination  to  impress  themselves  upon  other 
minds,  they  pass  their  lives  without  obtaining  a 
result,  and  their  characters,  dwarfed  by  their  dis 
tance  from  the  actual  universe,  acquire  an  apparent 


THE    SOLITARY    OF     SHAWMUT.  77 

indistinctness  and  feebleness,  which  in  reality  does 
not  belong  to  them. 

The  impending  revolution  in  church  and  state, 
which  hung  like  a  gathering  thundercloud  above 
England's  devoted  head,  was  exciting  to  the 
stronger  spirits,  whether  of  mischief  or  of  virtue, 
who  rejoiced  to  mingle  in  the  elemental  war,  and  to 
plunge  into  the  rolling  surge  of  the  world's  events  ; 
while  to  the  timid,  the  hesitating,  and  the  languid, 
it  rose  like  a  dark  and  threatening  phantom,  scaring 
them  into  solitude,  or  urging  them  to  seek  repose 
and  safety  in  obscurity.  Thus  there  may  be  men, 
whose  spirits  are  in  advance  of  their  age,  while 
still  the  current  of  the  world  flows  rapidly  past 
them. 

Of  such  men,  and  of  such  instincts,  was  the 
solitary  who  sat  on  the  cliffs  of  Shawmut.  For 
swearing  the  country  of  his  birth  and  early  man 
hood,  where  there  seemed,  in  the  present  state  of 
her  affairs,  no  possibility  that  minds  like  his  could 
develop  or  sustain  themselves  —  dropping,  as  it 
were,  like  a  premature  and  unripened  fruit,  from 
the  bough  where  its  blossoms  had  first  unfolded  — 
he  had  wandered  into  voluntary  exile,  with  hardly 
a  regret.  Debarred  from  ministering  at  the  altar, 
to  which  he  had  consecrated  his  youth,  because 
unable  to  comply  with  mummery  at  which  his  soul 
revolted,  he  had  become  a  high  priest  of  nature, 
and  had  reared  a  pure  and  solitary  altar  in  the 
wilderness.  He  had  dwelt  in  this  solitude  for  three 
or  four  years,  and  had  found  in  the  contemplation 
7* 


78  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

of  nature,  in  the  liberty  of  conscience,  in  solitary 
study  and  self-communing,  a  solace  for  the  ills  he 
had  suffered,  and  a  recompense  for  the  world  he 
had  turned  his  back  upon  forever. 

His  spirit  was  a  prophetic  spirit,  and  his  virtues 
belonged  not  to  his  times.  In  an  age  which  re 
garded  toleration  as  a  crime,  he  had  the  courage  to 
cultivate  it  as  a  virtue.  In  an  age  in  which  liberty 
of  conscience  was  considered  fearful  licentiousness, 
he  left  his  fatherland  to  obtain  it,  and  was  as  ready 
to  rebuke  the  intolerant  tyranny  of  the  noncon 
formist  of  the  wilderness,  as  he  had  been  to  resist 
the  bigotry  and  persecution  of  the  prelacy  at  home. 
In  short,  the  soul  of  the  gentle  hermit  flew  upon 
pure  white  wings  before  its  age,  but  it  flew,  like 
the  dove,  to  the  wilderness.  Wanting  both  power 
and  inclination  to  act  upon  others,  he  became  not  a 
reformer,  but  a  recluse.  Having  enjoyed  and  im 
proved  a  classical  education  at  the  university  of 
Cambridge,  he  was  a  thorough  and  an  elegant 
scholar.  He  was  likewise  a  profound  observer,  and 
a  student  of  nature  in  all  her  external  manifesta 
tions,  and  loved  to  theorize  and  to  dream  in  the 
various  walks  of  science.  The  botanical  and  min- 
eralogical  wonders  of  the  new  world  were  to  him 
the  objects  of  unceasing  speculation,  and  he  loved 
to  proceed  from  the  known  to  the  unknown,  and  to 
weave  fine  chains  of  thought,  which  to  his  soaring 
fancy  served  to  bind  the  actual  to  the  unseen  and 
the  spiritual,  and  upon  which,  as  upon  the  celestial 
ladder  in  the  patriarch's  vision,  he  could  dream  that 


THE    SOLITARY    OF    SHAWMUT.  79 

the  angels  of  the  Lord  were  descending  to  earth 
from  heaven. 

The  day  was  fast  declining,  as  the  solitary  still 
sat  upon  the  peak  and  mused.  He  arose  as  the  suri 
was  sinking  below  the  forest-crowned  hills  which 
girt  his  sylvan  hermitage,  and  gazed  steadfastly 
towards  the  west. 

" Another  day,"  he  said,  "hath  shone  upon  my 
lonely  path,  another  day  hath  joined  the  buried  ages 
which  have  folded  their  wings  beneath  yon  glowing 
west,  leaving  in  their  noiseless  flight  across  this  vir 
gin  world  no  trace  nor  relic  of  their  passage.  'T  is 
strange,  'tis  fearful,  this  eternal  and  unbroken  si 
lence.  Upon  what  fitful  and  checkered  scenes  hath 
yonder  sun  looked  down  in  other  lands,  even  in  the 
course  of  this  single  day's  career.  Events,  as  thickly 
studded  as  the  stars  of  heaven,  have  clustered  and 
shone  forth  beneath  his  rays,  even  as  his  glowing 
chariot-wheels  performed  their  daily  course  ;  and 
here,  in  this  mysterious  and  speechless  world,  as  if 
a  spell  of  enchantment  lay  upon  it,  the  silence  is 
unbroken,  the  whole  face  of  nature  still  dewy  and 
fresh.  The  step  of  civilization  hath  not  adorned 
nor  polluted  the  surface  of  this  wilderness.  No 
stately  temples  gleam  in  yonder  valleys,  no  storied 
monument  nor  aspiring  shaft  pierces  yonder  floating 
clouds ;  no  mighty  cities,  swarming  with  life,  filled 
to  bursting  with  the  ten  thousand  attendants  of 
civilized  humanity,  luxury  and  want,  pampered 
sloth,  struggling  industry,  disease,  crime,  riot,  pes 
tilence,  death,  all  hotly  pent  within  their  narrow 


80  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

precincts,  encumber  yon  sweeping  plains  ;  no 
peaceful  villages,  clinging  to  ancient,  ivy-mantled 
churches ;  no  teeming  fields,  spreading  their  vast 
and  nourishing  bosoms  to  the  toiling  thousands, 
meet  this  wandering  gaze.  No  cheerful  chime  of 
vesper  bell,  no  peaceful  low  of  the  returning  kine, 
no  watch-dog's  bark,  no  merry  shout  of  children's 
innocent  voices,  no  floating  music  from  the  shep 
herd's  pipe,  no  old  familiar  sounds  of  humanity, 
break  on  this  listening  ear.  No  snowy  sail  shines 
on  yon  eternal  ocean,  its  blue  expanse  unruffled 
and  unmarred  as  the  azure  heaven  ;  and  ah  !  no 
crimson  banners  flout  the  sky,  and  no  embattled 
hosts  shake  with  their  martial  tread  this  silent 
earth.  'T  is  silence  and  mystery  all.  Shall  it  be 
ever  thus  ?  Shall  this  green  and  beautiful  world, 
which  so  long  hath  slept  invisibly  at  the  side  of  its 
ancient  sister,  still  wear  its  virgin  wreath  unsoiled 
by  passion  and  pollution  ?  Shall  this  new,  vast 
page  in  the  broad  history  of  man,  remain  unsullied, 
or  shall  it  soon  flutter  in  the  storm-winds  of  fate, 
and  be  stamped  with  the  same  iron  record,  the  same 
dreary  catalogue  of  misery  and  crime,  which  fills 
the  chronicle  of  the  elder  world  ?  'T  is  passing 
strange,  this  sudden  apocalypse  !  Lo  !  is  it  not  as 
if  the  universe,  the  narrow  universe  which  bounded 
men's  thoughts  in  ages  past,  had  swung  open,  as  if 
by  an  almighty  fiat,  and  spread  wide  its  eastern 
and  western  wings  at  once,  to  shelter  the  myriads 
of  the  human  race  ?  " 

The  hermit  arose,  slowly  collected  a  few  simples 


THE    SOLITARY    OF    SHAWMUT.  81 

which  he  had  culled  from  the  wilderness,  a  few 
roots  of  early  spring  flowers  which  he  destined  for 
his  garden,  and  stored  them  in  his  wallet,  and  then 
grasping  his  long  staff,  began  slowly  to  descend  the 
hill. 


JULY. 


BY    THOMA.S    W.  PARSONS,  JR. 


ORION  dimly  burns  to-night, 
I  miss  the  starry  seven, 

And  with  a  mild  restraint  of  light 
Arcturus  walks  the  heaven  ; 

The  frog  pipes  feebly  in  the  fen, 
The  whippoorwill  is  faint 

With  chanting  to  regardless  men 
His  petulant  complaint. 

So,  June  is  over,  and  the  race 
Of  fire  —  th'  electric  fly  — 

Has  come  her  obsequies  to  grace, 
And  welcome  in  July. 

The  year's  great  miracle  is  done, 
The  wonder  of  the  spring, 

And  soon,  the  liberal-handed  sun 
His  promised  fruit  shall  bring. 


JULY.  83 

Like  some  fresh  marble,  the  sublime 

Work  of  immortal  hands  ! 
Nature  before  us,  in  her  prime, 

Almost  completed  stands. 

And  now  the  dreaming  eye  foresees 

The  sculptor's  final  stroke, 
The  golden  heaps  beneath  the  trees, 

The  purpling  of  the  oak. 

Ah !  might  we  never  forward  look, 

Or  be  like  insects  blind, 
And  in  the  sunshine  and  the  brook 

Sufficient  glory  find ; 

Nor  think  of  icy  days  to  come, 

When  sun  and  stream  shall  fail, 
And  all  these  branches,  bare  and  numb, 

Creak  in  December's  gale  ; 

Then  might  we  hail  this  radiant  moon 

With  more  confiding  joy, 
Nor  dread  the  solemn  law  that  soon 

This  beauty  shall  destroy. 

So  might  I,  dearest,  fast  by  thee, 

And  breathing  in  thy  breath, 
Forget  how  soon  thy  smile  must  be 

The  sad,  fixed  smile  of  death. 


COCHITUATE   LAKE. 


BY    NEHEMIAH    ADAMS. 

A  LARGE  extent  of  water,  at  some  distance  from 
this  city,  and  to  most  of  its  inhabitants  unknown 
till  within  a  few  years,  is  soon  to  be  on  its  way 
into  the  streets  and  dwellings  of  this  place.  At 
what  time  the  fountains  were  first  opened  there, 
and  the  valley  was  filled  with  them,  the  memory 
of  man  gives  us  no  information.  Tradition  speaks 
of  it  as  known  to  the  aborigines.  The  waters, 
however,  have  survived  all  traces  of  those  who 
roamed  over  those  hills,  hid  in  those  swamps,  or 
pursued  their  game  over  the  frozen  lake.  For 
centuries  the  embosomed  water  has  reflected  the 
image  of  the  heavens  from  its  eye  ever  lifted 
upward,  as  though  it  were  waiting  for  the  purpose 
of  God,  in  its  creation,  to  appear.  That  purpose 
has  long  been  concealed  and  delayed.  The  snows 
of  myriads  of  winters,  "  likewise  the  small  rain, 
and  the  great  rain  of  His  strength,"  have  descended 
into  it ;  secret  springs  have  been  contributing  to  its 
depth  and  amplitude  ;  it  has  been  full,  year  after 
year ;  but  still  the  purpose  of  God  with  regard  to 


COCHITUATE    LAKE.  85 

it  has  not  been  made  manifest.  The  leaves  of 
uncounted  autumns  have  fallen  round  it  j  the  nuts 
and  berries  in  successive  harvests  have  perished 
there  ;  by  it  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  had  their 
habitation,  which  sing  among  the  branches ;  the 
monthly  "  changes  of  the  watery  star  "  have  passed 
over  it  age  after  age  ;  but  not  till  the  present  year 
has  it  begun  to  serve  any  purpose  commensurate 
with  its  value. 

When  the  appointed  time  arrives  for  the  execu 
tion  of  any  great  purpose  of  God,  that  time,  could 
we  but  understand  it,  is,  in  his  view,  the  best  time  ; 
as  when  important  purposes  are  at  length  about  to 
be  fulfilled  by  us,  the  need  of  them,  or  the  prepa 
ration  for  them,  and  the  means  to  accomplish  them, 
then,  and  not  till  then,  seem  to  be  complete.  In 
the  mean  time,  God  is  not  unmindful  of  the  end  to 
be  accomplished.  He  regards  more  interests  than 
we  are  acquainted  with  ;  he  sees  the  need  of  prepa 
rations,  of  which  we  have  no  conception.  So  in 
the  delay  of  introducing  the  waters  of  a  lake  into  a 
city  ;  we  know  not  how  necessary  it  may  have 
been  that  the  secret  springs  should  have  had  longer 
time  to  strengthen  themselves,  and  wear  for  them 
selves  larger  openings  into  the  lake ;  or  what  slow, 
chemical  changes  it  was  necessary  should  be  ac 
complished  in  the  waters,  before  they  were  in  the 
highest  degree  fitted  for  the  use  of  the  great  city. 
The  utilitarian,  as  he  drinks  from  this  well,  may 
hereafter  be  tempted  to  say,  in  thinking  how  long 
the  lake  has  been  comparatively  useless,  and  how 
8 


86  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

much  the  city  has  needed  it,  —  "  To  what  purpose 
is  this  waste  ?  "  He  would  have  all  the  resources 
of  the  earth  and  sea  developed  in  a  day  ;  if  there 
are  any  more  planets  in  our  system  undiscovered, 
he  would  have  them  show  themselves  forthwith  ; 
he  proposes  to  cure  all  the  evils  of  the  moral  system 
by  a  short  logic ;  but  still,  the  ways  of"  Infinite 
Wisdom,  which  are  deliberate  and  continually  pro 
gressive,  are  the  best,  and  God  will  hasten  every 
thing  in  its  time.  No  one  of  us  foresaw  that  by  the 
delay  of  our  great  project  until  the  present  year,  a 
considerable  amount  in  the  cost  of  the  iron  would 
be  saved,  through  the  recent  enactment  with  regard 
to  the  tariff.  Thus  we  shall  always  find,  that,  if 
we  are  not  slothful,  though  we  may  be  disappointed 
and  hindered  in  the  execution  of  our  plans,  God's 
time  is  always  the  best  time ;  it  is  unwise  to  hasten 
it  by  rash  expedients,  and  when  it  comes,  all  things 
will  fall  into  subserviency  to  it,  and  men  will  be 
made  willing  in  the  day  of  its  power. 

An  abundant  supply  of  water  has  been  stored  up 
for  this  city,  kept  in  the  good  providence  of  God 
for  the  time  of  our  greatest  need,  and  is  now  on  its 
way  to  make  us  glad.  Once,  few  of  us  were  aware 
what  blessings  were  in  store  for  us  in  that  lake. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  things  connected  with 
the  preparations  for  the  water,  is,  a  ground-plan  of 
the  city,  prepared  in  order  to  ascertain  the  necessary 
amount  of  iron  pipe,  and  to  guide  the  workmen  in 
laying  it.  The  city  has  thus  been  accurately  sur 
veyed  and  measured.  Each  intersection  of  the 


COCHITUATE    LAKE.  87 

streets  and  the  opening  into  each  court  is  to  be 
provided  with  an  iron  cross-pipe,  cast  at  an  angle 
corresponding  with  the  angle  of  intersection.  Thus, 
no  place  where  the  water  will  be  needed,  has  been 
overlooked,  the  purpose  being  to  bring  the  water, 
not  merely  into  the  city,  but  to  each  man's  door. 

All  things  being  finished,  the  joyful  day  will 
come,  when  the  waters  will  make  their  entrance 
into  the  city.  The  "  ashlar  "  will  be  in  its  place, 
the  "  arch-stone "  will  have  been  secured,  the 
straight  and  the  crooked  pipes  will  all  be  adjusted, 
the  thirsty  reservoirs  will  wait  for  their  supplies, 
the  beautiful  decorations  for  the  fountains  will  be 
prepared,  and  many  will  be  assembled  to  see  the 
sportive  water  leaping  from  them.  In  the  dwellings 
the  approach  of  the  day  will  excite  as  much  enthu 
siasm,  as  the  day  of  national  independence  and  its 
entertainments.  The  children  will  many  times 
have  had  their  hands  upon  the  faucets,  tempting 
the  streams,  and  the  whole  household  will  partake 
of  the  same  pleasurable  expectation,  perhaps  in 
doubt  whether  to  remain  within  doors  to  welcome 
the  coming  blessing,  or  to  meet  with  the  eager 
multitude  without.  At  a  given  signal,  it  may  be, 
the  waters  will  be  let  in,  gradually,  and  with  in 
creasing  strength,  filling  the  great  reservoir  within 
the  city,  and  then  descending  from  it  in  haste  to 
smile  in  every  household.  All  at  once  the  city  will 
have  an  abundant  supply  of  water.  "  Joy  and 
gladness  will  be  found  therein,  thanksgiving  and 
the  voice  of  melody."  Man  and  beast  will  receive 


88  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

a  common  blessing.  The  rich  will  be  as  grateful 
as  the  poor,  and  the  poor  will  not  envy  the  rich. 
The  distant  lake  will  pour  itself  abroad  upon  a 
hundred  thousand  grateful  hearts ;  it  will  stimulate 
its  unseen  sources  to  supply  the  demands  upon  its 
benevolence ;  and  the  whole  structure,  so  compli 
cated  in  its  preparation,  and  composed  of  such 
various  materials,  will  become  one  great  monument 
of  divine  goodness,  and  of  human  energy.  When 
I  think  of  the  joy  of  this  whole  city  at  the  accom 
plishment  of  this  work ;  when  I  see  the  influence 
which  it  is  to  exert  upon  the  comfort  and  the 
happiness  and  the  welfare  of  this  place,  I  am 
tempted  to  use  these  words  in  a  different  sense, 
indeed,  from  that  in  which  they  were  spoken,  and 
say,  "  Who  shall  live  when  God  doeth  this?  "  It 
will  be  a  favor  to  live  and  partake  of  the  joy,  and 
exult  in  the  blessings  which  are  to  flow  abroad 
here  in  such  a  stream.  Let  us  rejoice  and  give 
thanks  in  anticipation.  "  Spring  up,  O  well ;  sing 
ye  unto  it."  Let  us  cheer  the  hearts  and  encourage 
the  hands  of  those  Avho  are  entrusted  with  this 
noble  enterprise,  in  such  ways  as  we  may,  and  at 
last  gratefully  identify  their  names  and  memories 
with  it.  As  we  see  the  work  proceeding,  and 
when  it  is  finished,  let  us  "  worship  Him  that  made 
heaven,  and  earth,  arid  the  sea;  and  the  fountains 
of  waters." 


THE   MORNING   VISIT. 


BY    O.  W.  HOLMES. 


A  SICK  man's  chamber,  though  it  often  boast 
The  grateful  presence  of  a  literal  toast, 
Can  hardly  claim  amidst  its  various  wealth 
The  right,  unchallenged,  to  propose  a  health ; 
Yet  though  its  tenant  is  denied  the  feast, 
Friendship  must  launch  his  sentiment  at  least, 
As  prisoned  damsels,  locked  from  lovers'  lips, 
Toss  them  a  kiss  from  off  their  fingers'  tips. 

The  Morning  Visit ;  —  not  till  sickness  falls, 
In  the  charmed  circle  of  your  own  safe  walls ; 
Till  fever's  throb,  and  pain's  relentless  rack 
Stretch  you,  all  helpless,  on  your  aching  back  ; 
Not  till  you  play  the  patient  in  your  turn, 
The  morning  visit's  mystery  shall  you  learn. 

'Tis  a  small  matter  in  your  neighbor's  case, 
To  charge  your  fee  for  showing  him  your  face  ; 
You  skip  up  stairs,  inquire,  inspect  and  touch, 
Prescribe,  take  leave,  and  off  to  twenty  such. 
8* 


90  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

But  when  at  length,  by  fate's  transferred  decree, 

The  visitor  becomes  the  visitee, 

O  then,  indeed,  —  it  pulls  another  string, 

Your  ox  is  gored,  —  and  that's  a  different  thing ! 

Your  friend  is  sick  ;  phlegmatic  as  a  Turk, 

You  write  your  recipe  and  let  it  work ; 

Not  yours  to  stand  the  shiver  and  the  frown, 

And  sometimes  worse  with  which  your  draught  goes  down  ; 

Calm  as  a  clock  your  knowing  hand  directs, 

Rhei,  Jalapa,  ana  grana  sex, 

Or  traces  on  some  tender  missive's  back, 

Scrupulos  duos  pulveris  Ipecac. ; 

And  leaves  your  patient  to  his  qualms  and  gripes, 

Cool  as  a  sportsman  banging  at  his  snipes. 

But  change  the  time,  the  person,  and  the  place, 
And  be  yourself  the  "  interesting  case," 
You'll  gain  some  knowledge  which  it's  well  to  learn, 
In  future  practice  it  may  serve  your  turn. 
Leeches,  for  instance,  —  pleasing  creatures  quite, 
Try  them. —  and,  bless  you, —  don't  you  find  they  bite  ? — 
You  raise  a  blister  for  the  smallest  cause, 
But  be  yourself  the  great  sublime  it  draws, 
And  trust  my  statement,  you  will  not  deny, 
The  worst  of  draughtsmen  is  your  Spanish  Fly ! 
It/s  mighty  easy,  ordering  when  you  please, 
Infusi  Senna,  capiat  uncias  tres  ; 
It 's  mighty  different  when  you  quackle  down, 
Your  own  three  ounces  of  the  liquid  brown. 
Pilula,  pulvis,  —  pleasant  words  enough, 
When  other  jaws  receive  the  shocking  stuff; 
But  oh,  what  flattery  can  disguise  the  groan, 
That  meets  the  gulp  which  sends  it  through  your  own ! 


THE    MORNING    VISIT.  91 

Be  gentle,  then,  though  Art's  unsparing  rules 
Give  you  the  handling  of  her  sharpest  tools ; 
Use  them  not  rashly,  —  sickness  is  enough,  — 
Be  always  "  ready,"  but  be  never  "  rough." 

Of  all  the  ills  that  suffering  man  endures, 
The  largest  fraction  liberal  Nature  cures  ; 
Of  those  remaining,  'tis  the  smallest  part 
Yields  to  the  efforts  of  judicious  Art ; 
But  simple  kindness  kneeling  by  the  bed, 
To  shift  the  pillow  for  the  sick  man's  head, 
Give  the  fresh  draught  to  cool  the  lips  that  burn, 
Fan  the  hot  brow,  the  weary  frame  to  turn ; 
Kindness,  —  untutored  by  our  grave  M.  D.s, 
But  Nature's  graduate,  whom  she  schools  to  please, 
Wins  back  more  sufferers  with  her  voice  and  smile, 
Than  all  the  trumpery  in  the  druggist's  pile. 

Once  more,  be  quiet ,  —  coming  up  the  stair, 
Don't  be  a  plantigrade,  a  human  bear, 
But  stealing  softly  on  the  silent  toe, 
Reach  the  sick  chamber  ere  you  're  heard  below. 
Whatever  changes  there  may  greet  your  eyes, 
Let  not  your  looks  proclaim  the  least  surprise ; 
It 's  not  your  business  by  your  face  to  show, 
All  that  your  patient  does  not  want  to  know  ; 
Nay,  use  your  optics  with  considerate  care, 
And  don't  abuse  your  privilege  to  stare. 
But  if  your  eyes  may  probe  him  overmuch, 
Beware  still  further  how  you  rudely  touch ; 
Don't  clutch  his  carpus  in  your  icy  fist, 
But  warm  your  fingers  ere  you  take  the  wrist ; 
If  the  poor  victim  needs  must  be  percussed, 
Don't  make  an  anvil  of  his  aching  bust ; 


92  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

(Doctors  exist  within  a  hundred  miles, 
Who  thump  a  thorax  as  they  'd  hammer  piles.) 
If  you  must  listen  to  his  doubtful  chest, 
Catch  the  essentials  and  ignore  the  rest, 
Spare  him  ;  the  sufferer  wants  of  you  and  art 
A  track  to  steer  by,  not  a  finished  chart ; 
So  of  your  questions,  —  don't  in  mercy  try 
To  pump  your  patient  absolutely  dry, 
He  's  not  a  mollusc  squirming  in  a  dish, 
You  're  not  Agassiz,  and  he's  not  a  fish. 

And  last,  not  least,  in  each  perplexing  case, 
Learn  the  sweet  magic  of  a  cheerful  face, 
Not  always  smiling,  but  at  least  serene, 
When  grief  and  anguish  cloud  the  anxious  scene. 
Each  look,  each  movement,  every  word  and  tone, 
Should  tell  your  patient  you  are  all  his  own ; 
Not  the  mere  artist,  purchased  to  attend, 
But  the  warm,  ready,  self- forgetting  friend, 
Whose  genial  visit  in  itself  combines 
The  best  of  cordials,  tonics,  anodynes. 

Such  is  the  Visit,  that  from  day  to  day 
Sheds  o'er  my  chamber  its  benignant  ray. 
I  give  his  health,  who  never  cared  to  claim, 
Her  babbling  homage  from  the  tongue  of  Fame  ; 
Unmoved  by  praise,  he  stands  by  all  confest, 
The  truest,  noblest,  wisest,  kindest,  best ! 

Boston,  May  30, 1849. 


THE    FATAL    SECRET. 


By    DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

AN  aged  man,  without  an  enemy  in  the  world,  in 
his  own  house,  and  in  his  own  bed,  is  made  the 
victim  of  a  butcherly  murder,  for  mere  pay.  Deep 
sleep  had  fallen  on  the  destined  victim,  and  on  all 
beneath  his  roof.  A  healthful  old  man,  to  whom 
sleep  was  sweet,  the  first  sound  slumbers  of  the 
night  held  him  in  their  soft  but  strong  embrace. 
The  assassin  enters,  through  the  window  already 
prepared,  into  an  unoccupied  apartment.  With 
noiseless  foot  he  paces  the  lonely  hall,  half  lighted 
by  the  moon ;  he  winds  up  the  ascent  of  the  stairs, 
and  reaches  the  door  of  the  chamber.  Of  this,  he 
moves  the  lock,  by  soft  and  continued  pressure,  till 
it  turns  on  its  hinges  without  noise ;  and  he  enters, 
and  beholds  his  victim  before  him.  The  room  was 
uncommonly  open  to  the  admission  of  light.  The 
face  of  the  innocent  sleeper  was  turned  from  the 
murderer,  and  the  beams  of  the  moon,  resting  on 
the  gray  locks  of  his  aged  temple,  showed  him 
where  to  strike.  The  fatal  blow  is  given !  and  the 
victim  passes,  without  a  struggle  or  a  motion,  from 


94  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  repose  of  sleep  to  the  repose  of  death  !  It  is  the 
assassin's  purpose  to  make  sure  work  ;  and  he  yet 
plies  the  dagger,  though  it  was  obvious  that  life 
had  been  destroyed  by  the  blow  of  the  bludgeon. 
He  even  raises  the  aged  arm,  that  he  may  not  fail 
in  his  aim  at  the  heart,  and  replaces  it  again  over 
the  wounds  of  the  poniard !  To  finish  the  picture, 
he  explores  the  wrist  for  the  pulse  !  He  feels  for  it, 
and  ascertains  that  it  beats  no  longer  !  It  is  accom 
plished.  The  deed  is  done.  He  retreats,  retraces 
his  steps  to  the  window,  passes  out  through  it  as 
he  came  in,  and  escapes.  He  has  done  the  murder, 
—  no  eye  has  seen  him,  no  ear  has  heard  him.  The 
secret  is  his  own,  and  it  is  safe  ! 

Ah !  gentlemen,  that  was  a  dreadful  mistake. 
Such  a  secret  can  be  safe  nowhere.  The  whole 
creation  of  God  has  neither  nook  nor  corner,  where 
the  guilty  can  bestow  it,  and  say  it  is  safe.  Not 
to  speak  of  that  eye  which  glances  through  all  dis 
guises,  and  beholds  every  thing,  as  in  the  splendor 
of  noon,  such  secrets  of  guilt  are  never  safe  from 
detection,  even  by  men.  True  it  is,  generally 
speaking,  that  "murder  will  out."  True  it  is,  that 
Providence  hath  so  ordained,  and  doth  so  govern 
things,  that  those  who  break  the  great  law  of 
heaven,  by  shedding  man's  blood,  seldom  succeed 
in  avoiding  discovery.  Especially,  in  a  case  exciting 
so  much  attention  as  this,  discovery  must  come,  and 
will  come,  sooner  or  later.  A  thousand  eyes  turn 
at  once  to  explore  every  man,  every  thing,  every 
circumstance,  connected  with  the  time  and  place ; 


THE    FATAL    SECRET.  95 

a  thousand  ears  catch  every  whisper ;  a  thousand 
excited  minds  intensely  dwell  on  the  scene,  shed 
ding  all  their  light,  and  ready  to  kindle  the  slightest 
circumstance  into  a  blaze  of  discovery.  Meantime, 
the  guilty  soul  cannot  keep  its  own  secret.  It  is 
false  to  itself;  or  rather  it  feels  an  irresistible  im 
pulse  of  conscience  to  be  true  to  itself.  It  labors 
under  its  guilty  possession,  and  knows  not  what  to 
do  with  it.  The  human  heart  was  not  made  for 
the  residence  of  such  an  inhabitant.  It  finds  itself 
preyed  on  by  a  torment,  which  it  dares  not  ac 
knowledge  to  God  or  man.  A  vulture  is  devouring 
it,  and  it  can  ask  no  sympathy  or  assistance,  either 
from  heaven  or  earth.  The  secret  which  the  mur 
derer  possesses  soon  comes  to  possess  him;  and, 
like  the  evil  spirits  of  which  we  read,  it  overcomes 
him,  and  leads  him  whithersoever  it  will.  He  feels 
it  beating  at  his  heart,  rising  to  his  throat,  and 
demanding  disclosure.  He  thinks  the  whole  world 
sees  it  in  his  face,  reads  it  in  his  eyes,  and  almost 
hears  its  workings  in  the  very  silence  of  his  thoughts. 
It  has  become  his  master.  It  betrays  his  discretion, 
it  breaks  down  his  courage,  it  conquers  his  pru 
dence.  When  suspicions,  from  without,  begin  to 
embarrass  him,  and  the  net  of  circumstance  to 
entangle  him,  the  fatal  secret  struggles  with  still 
greater  violence  to  burst  forth.  It  must  be  con 
fessed,  it  will  be  confessed,  there  is  no  refuge  from 
confession  but  suicide,  and  suicide  is  confession. 


THE  JINGKO  TREE  ON  BOSTON  COMMON. 


BY    JACOB    BIGELOW. 


THOU  queer,  outlandish,  fan-leaved  tree, 
Whose  grandfather  came  o'er  the  sea, 

A  pilgrim  of  the  ocean, 
Didst  thou  expect  to  gather  gear 
By  selling  out  thy  chopsticks  here  ? 

What  a  mistaken  notion ! 

Hard  times,  methinks,  have  been  thy  fate, 
Such  as  have  played  the  deuce  of  late, 

With  men's  estates  and  purses, 
Since,  on  thy  native  mount  secure, 
Thou  deem'dst  thy  title  safe  and  sure, 

Nor  dream'dst  of  such  reverses. 

They  dealt  thee  many  a  sturdy  thump, 
They  digged  the  earth  beneath  thy  stump, 

And  left  thee  high  and  dry ; 
The  spot,  which  once  thy  roots  did  bore, 
Is  now  the  garret  of  a  store, 

And  earth  is  changed  to  sky. 


THE    JINGKO    TREE    ON    BOSTON    COMMON.  97 

They  dragged  thee  sweeping  through  the  street, 
They  set  thee  up  upon  thy  feet, 

And  bade  thee  sink  or  swim ; 
For  many  a  month  't  was  quite  a  doubt, 
If  thou  could'st  possibly  hold  out, 

Thou  look'dst  so  very  slim. 

And  every  morn  a  motley  crew 
Of  idling  loungers  came  to  view 

Thy  withered  limbs  on  high ; 
And  many  a  knowing  look  was  there, 
While  some,  that  thou  would'st  live,  did  swear, 

And  some  that  thou  would'st  die. 

Some  shook  their  heads,  and  hinted  fear, 
It  cost  so  much  to  move  thee  here, 

That  taxes  would  be  cruel ; 
And  some  exclaimed,  what  pity  'twas, 
In  these  hard  times,  t'  incur  the  loss 

Of  half  a  cord  of  fuel. 

But  thou,  most  grave  and  sapient  tree, 
Their  idle  talk  was  nought  to  thee, 

Yet  could  not  be  prevented  : 
So  thou  did'st  wave  thy  breezy  head, 
And  nod  assent  to  all  they  said, 

And  send  them  home  contented. 

Meanwhile  thou  didst  resort  to  toil, 
Send  forth  small  roots  in  quest  of  soil, 

And  husband  well  thy  gains  ; 
Two  years  thou  mad'st  but  little  show, 
But  let  thy  useless  trimmings  go, 

And  liv'dst  within  thy  means. 
9 


98  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Dear  Jingko,  in  these  days  of  dread, 
Methinks  a  lesson  may  be  read, 

In  thy  lorn  situation  ; 
Thy  story  might  perhaps  impart 
To  many  a  vexed  and  drooping  heart 

Some  hints  of  consolation. 

Tell  them  that  thou  too  hast  been  distressed, 
And  found  thyself  at  times  quite  pressed 

For  want  of  friendly  propping ; 
When  none  who  witnessed  thy  mishap, 
Would  lend  thee  half  a  gill  of  sap 

To  save  thee  even  from  stopping. 

Tell  them  how  low  thy  credit  sank, 
And  how  they  ran  upon  thy  lank, 

And  cleared  thy  vaults  profound  ; 
How  thy  supplies  were  all  cut  off, 
And  sure  thy  stock  was  low  enough 

When  flat  upon  the  ground. 

But  thou,  brave  tree,  didst  not  despair, 
But  heldest  up  thy  head  in  air, 

And  wast  not  seen  to  flinch  ; 
Thou  let'st  them  know  for  very  spunk 
Thou  still  hadst  something  in  thy  trunk 

To  serve  thee  at  a  pinch. 

So  when  thou  hadst  set  up  again, 
Although  thy  garb  was  rather  plain, 

Thy  garments  old  and  dusted, 
Yet  men,  who  saw  thy  frugal  ways, 
Remembering  such  in  earlier  days, 

Believed  thou  might'st  be  trusted. 


THE    JINGKO    TREE    ON    BOSTON    COMMON.  99 

The  birds,  thy  customers  of  yore, 

To  thy  new  stand  came  back  once  more 

As  an  established  place  ; 
It  made  thy  heavy  heart  feel  light 
When  they  discharged  their  bills  at  sight, 

And  paid  their  notes  with  grace. 

And  so  thou  hast  survived  thy  fall, 
And  fairly  disappointed  all 

Who  thought  to  see  thee  down ; 
And  better  days  are  stored  for  thee,  — 
Long  shalt  thou  live,  triumphant  tree, 
And  spread  thy  foliage  broad  and  free, 

A  credit  to  the  town. 


THE  SEEN  AND  THE  UNSEEN. 


BY    EPHRAIM    PEABODY. 

HERE  is  a  whaling  vessel  in  the  harbor,  her 
anchors  up  and  her  sails  unfurled.  The  last  boat 
has  left  her,  and  she  is  now  departing  on  a  voyage 
of  three,  and,  perhaps,  four  years  in  length.  All 
that  the  eye  sees,  is,  that  she  is  a  strong  ship,  well- 
manned  and  well-provided  for  the  seas.  Those 
on  board  will  spend  years  of  toil,  and  will  then 
return,  while  the  profits  of  the  voyage  will  be 
distributed,  as  the  case  may  be,  to  be  squandered, 
or  to  be  added  to  already  existing  hoards.  So 
much  appears.  But  there  is  an  unpublished  his 
tory,  which,  could  it  be  revealed  and  brought 
vividly  before  the  mind,  would  transfigure  her,  and 
enshrine  her  in  an  almost  awful  light. 

There  is  not  a  stick  of  timber  in  her  whole 
frame,  not  a  plank  or  a  rope,  which  is  not,  in  some 
mysterious  way,  enveloped  with  human  interests 
and  sympathies.  Let  us  trace  this  part  of  her 
history,  while  she  circles  the  globe  and  returns  to 
the  harbor  from  which  she  sailed.  At  the  outset, 
the  labor  of  the  merchant,  the  carpenter,  and  of  all 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  101 

employed  on  her,  has  not  been  mere  sordid  labor. 
The  thought  of  their  homes,  of  their  children,  and 
of  what  this  labor  may  secure  for  them,  has  been  in 
their  hearts. 

And  they  who  sail  in  her,  leave  behind,  homes, 
wives,  children,  parents;  and  years  before  they 
return,  those  who  are  dearest  to  them  may  be  in 
their  tombs.  What  bitter  partings,  as  if  by  the 
grave's  brink,  are  those  which  take  place  when  the 
signal  to  unmoor  calls  them  on  board.  There  are 
among  them,  young  men,  married,  perhaps,  but  a 
few  weeks  before,  and  those  of  maturer  years, 
whose  young  children  cleave  to  their  hearts  as  they 
go.  How  deeply,  as  the  good  ship  sails  out  into 
the  open  sea,  is  she  freighted  with  memories  and 
affections.  Every  eye  is  turned  towards  the  reced 
ing  coast,  as  if  the  pangs  of  another  farewell  were 
to  be  endured.  Fade  slowly,  shores  that  encircle 
their  homes !  Shine  brightly,  ye  skies,  over  those 
dear  ones  whom  they  leave  behind !  They  round 
the  capes  of  continents,  they  traverse  every  zone, 
their  keel  crosses  every  sea,  but  still,  brighter  than 
the  southern  cross  or  the  polar  star,  shines  on  their 
souls  the  light  of  their  distant  home.  In  the  calm 
moonlight  rise  before  the  mariner  the  forms  of  those 
whom  he  loves ;  in  the  pauses  of  the  gale  he  hears 
the  voices  of  his  children.  Beat  upon  by  the  tem 
pest,  worn  down  with  labor,  he  endures  all.  Wel 
come  care  and  toil,  if  these  may  bring  peace  and 
happiness  to  those  dear  ones,  who  meet  around  his 
distant  fireside ! 

9* 


102  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

And  the  thoughts  of  those  in  that  home,  com 
passing  the  globe,  follow  him  wherever  he  goes. 
Their  prayers  blend  with  all  the  winds  which  swell 
his  sails.  Their  affections  hover  over  his  dreams. 
Children  count  the  months  and  the  days  of  a  father's 
absence.  The  babe  learns  to  love  him  and  to  lisp 
his  name.  Not  a  midnight  storm  strikes  their  dwell 
ing,  but  the  wife  starts  from  her  sleep,  as  if  she 
heard,  in  the  wailings  of  the  wind,  the  sad  fore 
bodings  of  danger  and  wreck.  Not  a  soft  wind 
blows,  but  comes  to  her  heart  as  a  gentle  messenger 
from  the  distant  seas. 

And  after  years  of  absence,  they  approach  their 
native  shores.  As  the  day  closes,  they  can  see  the 
summits  of  the  distant  highlands,  hanging  like 
stationary  clouds  on  the  horizon.  And  long  before 
the  night  is  over,  their  sleepless  eyes  catch  the  light 
glancing  across  the  rim  of  the  seas,  from  the  light 
house  at  the  entrance  of  the  bay.  With  the  morn 
ing  they  are  moored  in  the  harbor.  The  newspapers 
announce  her  arrival.  But  here  again,  how  little  of 
her  cargo  is  of  that  material  kind  which  can  be 
reckoned  in  dollars  and  cents.  She  is  freighted 
with  human  hearts,  with  anxieties  and  hopes  and 
fears.  Many  of  the  crew  have  not  dared  to  ask 
the  pilot  of  home.  The  souls  of  many,  yesterday 
full  of  joyful  expectation,  are  now  overshadowed 
with  anxiety.  They  almost  hesitate  to  leave  the 
ship,  and  pause  for  some  one  from  the  shore  to 
answer  those  questions  of  home  and  of  those 
they  love,  which  they  dare  not  utter.  There  are 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  103 

many  joyful  meetings,  and   some   that  are  full  of 
sorrow. 

Let  us  follow  one  of  this  crew.  He  is  still  a 
youth.  Years  ago,  of  a  wild,  and  reckless,  and 
roving  spirit,  he  left  his  home.  He  had  fallen  into 
temptations  which  had  been  too  strong  for  his  feeble 
virtue.  His  feet  had  been  familiar  with  the  paths 
of  sin  and  shame.  But  during  the  present  voyage, 
sickness  and  reflection  have  "  brought  him  to  him 
self."  Full  of  remorse  for  evil  courses,  and  for  that 
parental  love  which  he  has  slighted,  he  has  said, 
"  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father's  house  ; "  they 
who  gave  me  birth  shall  no  longer  mourn  over  me 
as  lost.  I  will  smooth  the  pathway  of  age  for 
them,  and  be  the  support  of  their  feeble  steps.  He 
is  on  his  way  to  where  they  dwell  in  the  country. 
As  the  sun  is  setting,  he  can  see,  from  an  eminence 
over  which  the  road  passes,  their  solitary  home  on 
a  distant  hill-side.  O  scene  of  beauty,  such  as,  to 
him,  no  other  land  can  show  !  There  is  the  church, 
here  a  school-house,  and  the  abodes  of  those  whom 
he  knew  in  childhood.  He  can  see  the  places 
where  he  used  to  watch  the  golden  sunset,  not,  as 
now,  with  a  heart  full  of  penitence,  and  fear,  and 
sorrow  for  wasted  years,  but  in  the  innocent  days 
of  youth.  There  are  the  pastures  and  the  woods, 
where  he  wandered  full  of  the  dreams  and  hopes  of 
childhood,  —  fond  hopes  and  dreams  that  have  issued 
in  such  sad  realities.  The  scene  to  others  would 
be  but  an  ordinary  one.  But  to  him,  the  spirit 
gives  it  life.  It  is  covered  all  over  with  the  golden 


104  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

hues  of  memory.  His  heart  leaps  forward  to  his 
home,  but  his  feet  linger.  May  not  death  have 
been  there  ?  May  not  those  lips  be  hushed  in  the 
silence  of  the  grave,  from  which  he  hoped  to  hear 
the  words  of  love  and  forgiveness.  He  pauses  on 
the  way,  and  does  not  approach  till  he  beholds  a 
light  shining  through  the  uncurtained  windows  of 
the  humble  dwelling.  And  even  now  his  hand  is 
drawn  back,  which  was  raised  to  lift  the  latch.  He 
would  see  if  all  are  there.  With  a  trembling 
heart  he  looks  into  the  window, — and  there, — 
blessed  sight !  —  he  beholds  his  mother,  busy  as 
was  her  wont,  and  his  father,  only  grown  more 
reverend  with  increasing  age,  reading  that  holy 
book  which  he  taught  his  son  to  revere,  but 
which  that  son  has  so  forgotten.  But  there  were 
others ;  and  lo !  one  by  one  they  enter,  young 
sisters,  who,  when  he  last  saw  them,  were  but 
children  that  sate  on  the  knee,  but  who  have  now 
grown  up  almost  to  womanly  years.  And  now 
another  fear  seizes  him.  How  shall  they  receive 
him?  May  not  he  be  forgotten?  May  they  not 
reject  him  ?  But  he  will,  at  least,  enter.  He  raises 
the  latch ;  with  a  heart  too  full  for  utterance,  he 
stands  silent  and  timid  in  the  doorway.  The  father 
raises  his  head,  the  mother  pauses  and  turns  to  look 
at  the  guest  who  enters.  It  is  but  a  moment,  when 
burst  from  their  lips  the  fond  words  of  recognition, — 
my  son !  my  son !  Blessed  words,  which  have 
told,  so  fully  that  nothing  remains  to  be  told,  the 
undying  strength  of  parental  love.  To  a  traveller, 


THE    SEEN    AND    THE    UNSEEN.  L05 

who  might  that  night  have  passed  this  cottage 
among  the  hills,  if  he  had  observed  it  at  all,  it  would 
have  spoken  of  nothing  but  daily  toil,  of  decent 
comfort,  of  obscure  fortunes.  Yet  at  that  very 
hour,  it  was  filled  with  thanksgivings  which  rose 
like  incense  to  the  heavens,  because  that  "  he  who 
was  lost,  was  found  j  and  he  that  was  dead,  was 
alive  again." 

Thus  ever  under  the  visible  is  the  invisible. 
Through  dead  material  forms  circulate  the  currents 
of  spiritual  life.  Desert  rocks,  and  seas,  and  shores, 
are  humanized  by  the  presence  of  man,  and  become 
alive  with  memories  and  affections.  There  is  a  life 
which  appears,  and  under  it,  in  every  heart,  is  a  life 
which  does  not  appear,  which  is,  to  the  former,  as 
the  depths  of  the  sea  to  the  waves,  and  the  bubbles, 
and  the  spray,  on  its  surface.  There  is  not  an 
obscure  house  among  the  mountains,  where  the 
whole  romance  of  life,  from  its  dawn  to  its  setting, 
through  its  brightness  and  through  its  gloom,  is  not 
lived  through.  The  commonest  events  of  the  day 
are  products  of  the  same  passions  and  affections, 
which,  in  other  spheres,  decide  the  fate  of  king 
doms.  Outwardly,  the  ongoings  of  ordinary  life 
are  like  the  movements  of  machinery,  lifeless, 
mechanical,  common-place  repetitions  of  the  same 
trifling  events.  But  they  are  neither  lifeless,  nor 
old,  nor  trifling.  The  passions  and  affections  make 
them  ever  new  and  original,  and  the  most  unimpor 
tant  acts  of  the  day  reach  forward  in  their  results 
into  the  shadows  of  eternity. 


SANTA  CROCE. 


BY     EDWARD     EVERETT. 

NOT  chiefly  for  thy  storied  towers  and  halls, 
For  the  bright  wonders  of  thy  pictured  walls  ; 
Not  for  the  olive's  wealth,  the  vineyard's  pride, 
That  crown  thy  hills,  and  teem  on  Arno's  side, 
Dost  thou  delight  me,  Florence !  I  can  meet 
Elsewhere  with  halls  as  rich,  and  vales  as  sweet ; 
I  prize  thy  charms  of  nature  and  of  art, 
But  yield  them  not  the  homage  of  my  heart. 

Rather  to  Santa  Croce  I  repair, 
To  breathe  her  peaceful  monumental  air ; 
The  age,  the  deeds,  the  honors  to  explore, 
Of  those  who  sleep  beneath  her  marble  floor ; 
The  stern  old  tribunes  of  the  early  time, 
The  merchant  lords  of  Freedom's  stormy  prime  ; 
And  each  great  name,  in  every  after  age, 
The  praised,  the  wise  ;  the  artist,  bard  and  sage. 

I  feel  their  awful  presence  ;  lo,  thy  bust, 
Thy  urn,  Oh !  Dante,  not  alas  thy  dust. 
Florence,  that  drove  thee  living  from  her  gate, 
Waits  for  that  dust,  in  vain,  and  long  shall  wait. 


SANTA    CROCE. 


Ravenna!  keep  the  glorious  Exile's  trust, 
And  teach  remorseless  factions  to  be  just, 
While  the  poor  Cenotaph,  which  bears  his  name, 
Proclaims  at  once  his  praise,  —  his  country's  shame. 

Next,  in  an  urn,  not  void,  though  cold  as  thine, 
Moulders  a  godlike  spirit's  mortal  shrine. 
Oh  !  Michael,  look  not  down  so  still  and  hard, 
Speak  to  me,*  Painter,  Builder,  Sculptor,  Bard ! 
And  shall  those  cunning  fingers,  stiff  and  cold, 
Crumble  to  meaner  earth  than  they  did  mould  ? 
Art  thou,  who  form  and  force  to  clay  couldst  give, 
And  teach  the  quarried  adamant  to  live, 
Bid,  —  in  the  vaultings  of  thy  mighty  dome,  — 
Pontifical,  outvie  imperial  Rome, 
Portray  unshrinking,  to  the  dazzled  eye, 
Creation,  Judgment,  Time,  Eternity, 
Art  thou  so  low,  and  in  this  narrow  cell, 
Doth  that  Titanic  genius  stoop  to  dwell ; 
And,  while  thine  arches  brave  the  upper  sky, 
Art  thou  content  in  these  dark  caves  to  lie  ?  ' 

And  thou,  illustrious  sage  !  thine  eye  is  closed 
To  which  their  secret  paths  new  stars  exposed. 
Haply  thy  spirit,  in  some  higher  sphere, 
Soars  with  the  motions,  which  it  measured  here 
Soft  be  thy  slumbers,  Seer,  for  thanks  to  thee, 
The  earth  now  turns,  without  a  heresy. 
Dost  thou,  whose  keen  perception  pierced  the  cause 
Which  gives  the  pendulum  its  mystic  laws, 


108  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Now  trace  each  orb,  with  telescopic  eyes, 
And  solve  the  eternal  clock-work  of  the  skies ; 
While  thy  worn  frame  enjoys  its  long  repose, 
And  Santa  Croce  heals  Arcetri's  woes  ?  * 

Nor  them  alone :  —  on  her  maternal  breast 
Here  Machiavelli's  tortured  limbs  have  rest. 
Oh  !  that  the  cloud  upon  his  tortured  fame 
Might  pass  away,  and  leave  an  honest  name ! 
The  power  of  princes  o'er  thy  limbs  is  staid, 
But  thine  own  "  Prince"  ;  that  dark  spot  ne'er  shall  fade. 
Peace  to  thine  ashes ;  who  can  have  the  heart 
Above  thy  grave,  to  play  the  cenosr's  part. 
I  read  the  statesman's  fortune  in  thy  doom, — 
Toil,  greatness,  woe  ;  —  a  late  and  lying  tomb  :  t 
Aspiring  aims  by  grovelling  arts  pursued, 
Faction  and  self  baptized  the  public  good, 
A  life  traduced,  a  statue  crowned  with  bays, 
And  starving  service  paid  with  funeral  praise. 

Here  too,  at  length  the  indomitable  will 
And  fiery  pulse  of  Asti's  bard  are  still. 
And  she,  —  the  Stuart's  widow,  —  rears  thy  stone, 
Seeks  the  next  aisle,  and  drops  beneath  her  own. 
The  great,  the  proud,  the  fair,  —  alike  they  fall ; 
Thy  sickle,  Santa  Croce,  reapeth  all ! 

Yes,  reapeth  all,  or  else  had  spared  the  bloom 
Of  that  fair  bud,  now  closed  in  yonder  tomb. 


. .*  Galileo,  toward  the  close  of  his  life,  was  imprisoned  at  Arcetri,  near 
Florence,  by  order  of  the  inquisition. 

t  The  monument  of  Machiavelli  in  Santa  Croce  was  erected  in  the 
latter  half  of  the  last  century,  —  The  inscription,  "  tanto  homini  nullum 
par  elogium." 


SANTA    CROCE.  109 

Meek,  gentle,  pure  ;  and  yet  to  him  allied, 
Who  smote  the  astonished  nations  in  his  pride  : 
"  Worthy  his  name,"  so  saith  the  sculptured  line,  — 
Waster  of  man,  would  he  were  worthy  thine  !  * 

Hosts  yet  unnamed, —  the  obscure,  the  known,  —  I  leave  ; 
What  throngs  would  rise,  could  each  his  marble  heave ! 
But  we  who  muse  above  the  famous  dead, 
Shall  soon  be  silent,  as  the  dust  we  tread. 
Yet  not  for  me,  when  I  shall  fall  asleep, 
Shall  Santa  Croce's  lamps  their  vigils  keep. 
Beyond  the  main,  in  Auburn's  quiet  shade, 
With  those  I  loved  and  love  my  couch  be  made  ; 
Spring's  pendent  branches  o'er  the  hillock  wave, 
And  morning's  dew-drops  glisten  on  my  grave  ; 
While  Heaven's  great  arch  shall  rise  above  my  bed, 
When  Santa  Croce's  crumbles  on  her  dead ; 
Unknown  to  erring  or  to  suffering  fame, 
So  I  may  leave  a  pure  though  humble  name. 

Florence,  May,  1841. 


*  "  Ici  repose  Charlotte  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  digne  de  son  nom,  1S39.' 
The  words  are  translated  "worthy  his  name,"  for  an  obvious  reason. 

10 


WASHINGTON   AND   THE   UNION. 


BY    ROBERT    C.    WINTHROP. 


ABOVE  all,  and  before  all,  in  the  heart  of  Wash 
ington,  was  the  Union  of  the  States ;  and  no  op 
portunity  was  ever  omitted  by  him,  to  impress 
upon  his  fellow-citizens  the  profound  sense  which 
he  entertained  of  its  vital  importance  at  once  to 
their  prosperity  and  their  liberty. 

In  that  incomparable  address,  in  which  he  bade 
farewell  to  his  countrymen  at  the  close  of  his  Presi 
dential  service,  he  touched  upon  many  other  topics 
with  the  earnestness  of  a  sincere  conviction.  He 
called  upon  them,  in  solemn  terms,  to  "  cherish 
public  credit ;  "  to  "  observe  good  faith  and  justice 
towards  all  nations,"  avoiding  both  "  inveterate 
antipathies,  and  passionate  attachments,"  towards 
any  ;  to  mitigate  and  assuage  the  unquenchable  fire 
of  party  spirit,  "  lest,  instead  of  warming,  it  should 
consume;"  to  abstain  from  " characterizing  parties 
by  geographical  distinctions  ;  "  "  to  promote  insti 
tutions  for  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge  ;  " 
to  respect  and  uphold  "  religion  and  morality  ; 


WASHINGTON    AND    THE    UNION.  Ill 

those  great  pillars  of  human  happiness,  those  firm 
est  props  of  the  duties  of  men  and  of  citizens." 

But  what  can  exceed,  what  can  equal,  the  accu 
mulated  intensity  of  thought  and  of  expression 
with  which  he  calls  upon  them  to  cling  to  the 
Union  of  the  States.  "  It  is  of  infinite  moment," 
says  he,  in  language  which  we  ought  never  to  be 
weary  of  hearing  or  of  repeating,  "  that  you  should 
properly  estimate  the  immense  value  of  your  Na 
tional  Union  to  your  collective  and  individual  hap 
piness  ;  that  you  should  cherish  a  cordial,  habitual, 
immovable  attachment  to  it ;  accustoming  your 
selves  to  think  and  speak  of  it  as  of  the  palladium 
of  your  political  safety  and  prosperity;  watching 
for  its  preservation  with  jealous  anxiety ;  discoun 
tenancing  whatever  may  suggest  even  a  suspicion 
that  it  can,  in  any  event,  be  abandoned  ;  and  in 
dignantly  frowning  upon  the  first  dawning  of  every 
attempt  to  alienate  any  portion  of  our  country  from 
the  rest,  or  to  enfeeble  the  sacred  ties  which  now 
link  together  the  various  parts." 

The  Union,  the  Union  in  any  event,  was  thus 
the  sentiment  of  Washington.  The  Union,  the 
Union  in  any  event,  let  it  be  our  sentiment  this 
day! 

Yes,  to-day,  fellow-citizens,  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  extension  of  our  boundaries,  and  the 
multiplication  of  our  territories  are  producing,  di 
rectly  and  indirectly,  among  the  different  mem 
bers  of  our  political  system,  so  many  marked  and 
mournful  centrifugal  tendencies,  let  us  seize  this 


112  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

occasion  to  renew  to  each  other  our  vows  of  alle 
giance  and  devotion  to  the  American  Union ;  and 
let  us  recognize,  in  our  common  title  to  the  name 
and  the  fame  of  Washington,  and  in  our  common 
veneration  for  his  example  and  his  advice,  the  all- 
sufficient  centripetal  power,  which  shall  hold  the 
thick  clustering  stars  of  our  confederacy  in  one 
glorious  constellation  forever  !  Let  the  column 
which  we  are  about  to  construct,  be  at  once  a 
pledge  and  an  emblem  of  perpetual  union !  Let 
the  foundations  be  laid,  let  the  superstructure  be 
built  up  and  cemented,  let  each  stone  be  raised  and 
riveted,  in  a  spirit  of  national  brotherhood  !  And 
may  the  earliest  ray  of  the  rising  sun, —  till  that  sun 
shall  set  to  rise  no  more, —  draw  forth  from  it  daily, 
as  from  the  fabled  statue  of  antiquity,  a  strain  of 
national  harmony,  which  shall  strike  a  responsive 
chord  in  every  heart  throughout  the  Republic. 

Proceed,  then,  fellow-citizens,  with  the  work  for 
which  you  have  assembled.  Lay  the  corner-stone 
of  a  monument  which  shall  adequately  bespeak  the 
gratitude  of  the  whole  American  people  to  the  illus 
trious  Father  of  his  country.  Build  it  to  the  skies  : 
you  cannot  outreach  the  loftiness  of  his  principles. 
Found  it  upon  the  massive  and  eternal  rock ;  you 
cannot  make  it  more  enduring  than  his  fame.  Con 
struct  it  of  the  peerless  Parian  marble  ;  you  cannot 
make  it  purer  than  his  life.  Exhaust  upon  it  the 
rules  and  principles  of  ancient  and  of  modern  art  ; 
you  cannot  make  it  more  proportionate  than  his 
character. 


WASHINGTON    AND    THE    UNION.  113 

But  let  not  your  homage  to  his  memory  end 
here.  Think  not  to  transfer  to  a  tablet  or  a 
column,  the  tribute  which  is  due  from  yourselves. 
Just  honor  to  Washington  can  only  be  rendered  by 
observing  his  precepts,  and  imitating  his  example. 
Similitudine  decor  emus.  He  has  built  his  own 
monument.  We,  and  those  who  come  after  us  in 
successive  generations,  are  its  appointed,  its  privi 
leged  guardians.  This  wide-spread  Republic  is  the 
true  monument  to  Washington.  Maintain  its  Inde 
pendence.  Uphold  its  Constitution.  Preserve  its 
Union.  Defend  its  Liberty.  Let  it  stand  before 
the  world  in  all  its  original  strength  and  beauty, 
securing  peace,  order,  equality  and  freedom,  to 
all  within  its  boundaries,  and  shedding  light  and 
hope  and  joy  upon  the  pathway  of  human  liberty 
throughout  the  world ;  and  Washington  needs  no 
other  monument.  Other  structures  may  fitly  testify 
our  veneration  for  him ;  this,  this  alone,  can  ade 
quately  illustrate  his  services  to  mankind. 

Nor  does  he  need  even  this.  The  Republic  may 
perish ;  the  wide  arch  of  our  ranged  Union  may 
fall  j  star  by -star  its  glories  may  expire  ;  stone  after 
stone  its  columns  and  its  capitol  may  moulder  and 
crumble  ;  all  other  names  which  adorn  its  annals 
may  be  forgotten  ;  but  as  long  as  human  hearts 
shall  any  where  pant,  or  human  tongues  shall  any 
where  plead,  for  a  true,  rational,  constitutional 
liberty,  those  hearts  shall  enshrine  the  memory, 
and  those  tongues  shall  prolong  the  fame,  of 
GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 
10* 


MOUNT   AUBURN. 


BY   CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


There  was  a  garden,  and  in  the  garden  a  new  sepulchre. 


WHAT  myriads  throng,  in  proud  array, 
With  songs  of  joy,  and  flags  unfurled, 

To  consecrate  the  glorious  day, 
That  gave  a  nation  to  the  world  ! 

We  raise  no  shout,  no  trumpet  sound, 
No  banner  to  the  breeze  we  spread ; 

Children  of  clay  !   bend  humbly  round  ; 
We  plant  a  City  to  the  Dead. 

For  man  a  garden  rose  in  bloom, 
When  yon  glad  sun  began  to  burn ; 

He  fell,  —  and  heard  the  awful  doom,  — 
"  Of  dust  thou  art,  —  to  dust  return  !  " 


MOUNT    AUBURN.  115 

But  HE,  in  whose  pure  faith  we  come, 

Who  in  a  gloomier  garden  lay, 
Assured  us  of  a  brighter  home, 

And  rose,  and  led  the  glorious  way. 

His  word  we  trust !     When  life  shall  end, 
Here  be  our  long,  long  slumber  passed ; 

To  the  first  garden's  doom  we  bend, 
And  bless  the  promise  of  the  last. 


REV.  THOMAS  CHALMERS,  D.  D. 


BY    DANIEL    SHARP. 


HAVING  been  long  acquainted  with  Dr.  Chal 
mers  as  an  author,  and  admiring  him  as  a 
Christian  philanthropist,  who  was  ever  devising 
plans  for  improving  the  social  and  moral  condition 
of  the  poor,  on  passing  over  from  England  to  Scot 
land,  in  the  summer  of  1845,  it  was  one  of  my 
cherished  hopes  that  I  might  see  and  hear  him 
preach. 

Nor  was  I  disappointed.  On  my  arrival  in  Glas 
gow,  the  gratifying  announcement  was  made,  that 
he  would  deliver  a  discourse  the  ensuing  Sabbath,  at 
the  dedication  of  the  Free  Church  of  St.  John.  On 
that  occasion,  I  had  the  uncommon  satisfaction  of 
being  introduced  to  and  of  listening  to  that  eminent 
minister  of  Christ.  It  was  to  me  a  delightful  sight, 
to  see  that  house  of  worship  devoted  to  the  volun 
tary  principle,  and  filled  to  its  utmost  capacity  with 
eager  listeners  to  a  man  who  had  commenced  his 
ministry  in  that  city  just  thirty  years  before.  As 
he  entered  the  church,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon 
him  with  love  arid  reverence.  His  Scottish  Pres- 


117 


byterian  gown  and  bands  contributed  somewhat  to 
his  dignified  and  venerable  appearance.  But  there 
was  a  majesty  and  yet  a  benignity  of  countenance, 
that,  had  you  seen  him  in  a  crowd  without  his 
clerical  robes,  you  would  involuntarily  have  said, 
"  that  is  no  common  man." 

His  texts  were,  "  Take  heed  what  ye  hear,"  and 
"  Take  heed  therefore  how  ye  hear."  For  some 
fifteen  minutes  I  had  a  feeling  of  disappointment  j 
but  as  he  warmed  with  his  subject,  there  was  a 
comprehensiveness,  and  discrimination,  and  clear 
ness  of  thought,  a  richness  and  copiousness  of 
expression,  and  an  unction  which  charmed  and 
captivated  me.  His  views  on  the  duty  of  hearers 
to  listen  with  candor,  attention  and  humility,  and 
to  use  their  own  minds  in  the  examination  and 
contemplation  of  what  they  hear,  were  rational  and 
scriptural.  He  went  against  the  doctrine  of  man's 
passivity  and  the  Spirit's  exclusive  activity,  in  con 
version  and  in  Christian  progress.  And  he  showed 
the  delusiveness  of  the  doctrine,  which  teaches, 
that  man  must  do  nothing  in  his  salvation,  so  that 
God  may  have  the  glory  of  doing  every  thing.  It 
was  an  able  discourse.  His  style  was  not  ornate, 
nor  so  diffuse  as  I  had  expected.  It  was  far  better. 
It  was  simple,  clear,  forcible,  and  fervid.  Every 
sentence  was  delivered  with  the  earnestness  of  one 
who  believed  what  he  said,  and  considered  it  to  be 
of  present  and  eternal  importance.  He  was  an  elo 
quent  man.  During  the  whole  of  my  visit  in  Great 
Britain,  I  heard  nothing  from  the  lips  of  any 


118  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

preacher  superior  to  the  sermon  at  the  dedication 
of  the  Free  Church  of  St.  John. 

Dr.  Chalmers,  perhaps,  more  than  any  one  of  his 
theological  views,  set  the  example  of  a  departure 
from  mere  dogmatic  and  systematic  preaching.  His 
sermons  were  not  discussions  of  abstract  truths, 
applying  to  no  one.  He  preached  to  the  people 
concerning  their  social  relations,  their  secular  pur 
suits,  their  condition  and  duties.  He  addressed  the 
mercantile  classes,  and  pointed  out  their  dangers 
and  obligations.  He  preached  to  the  tradesman 
and  the  day-laborer,  and  to  professional  men,  giv 
ing  to  each  a  word  in  season,  and  showing  them 
how  the  principles  of  the  gospel  were  to  be  carried 
out  in  their  different  callings  and  pursuits.  It  was 
thus  he  fulfilled  his  ministry,  making  himself  inter 
esting  to  all  by  overlooking  none. 

For  the  philosophic  infidel,  the  vicious  profligate, 
and  the  self-righteous  Pharisee,  he  had  words  of 
truth  and  soberness,  not  unaccompanied  by  fervid 
strains  of  eloquence.  Many  preachers  fail  of  ex 
tended  usefulness,  because  of  their  extremely  lim 
ited  and  superficial  views.  They  confine  themselves 
to  one  class  of  truths  ;  to  one  class  of  sins  ;  to  one 
class  of  hearers  ;  to  one  class  of  duties  ;  and  to  one 
class  of  privileges.  Throwing  off  all  these  fetters 
and  limitations,  Chalmers  suited  his  arguments, 
appeals  and  remonstrances  to  these  wide  varieties 
of  character.  Hence  the  beggar  and  the  peer,  the 
operative  and  the  barrister,  would  hear  truths 
deserving  of  their  profoundest  attention,  because 


REV.  THOMAS    CHALMERS,  D.  D.  119 

adapted  to  their  respective  circumstances.  This 
was  one  cause  of  the  interest  which  all  classes  felt 
in  his  preaching,  and  of  his  great  success.  A  strong 
mind,  a  liberal  education,  and  a  matured  experience, 
had  given  him  large  views  of  the  relations  of  truth 
and  duty.  When  he  prepared  himself  for  the 
pulpit,  his  mental  treasures,  drawn  from  the  litera 
ture  of  the  ancients,  from  the  discoveries  of  modern 
science,  from  history  and  philosophy,  afforded  him 
such  exuberant  and  varied  illustrations,  that  he 
delighted,  and  of  course  riveted  the  attention  both 
of  the  learned  and  the  illiterate,  not  only  for  a  few 
sabbaths,  but  to  the  end  of  a  protracted  life. 

When  I  heard  him,  — and  he  was  then  sixty-five 
years  of  age,  —  he  kept  up  the  unfatigued  attention, 
nay,  the  ravished  interest,  of  a  large  audience  for 
one  hour  and  twenty  minutes.  This  he  did  not 
by  the  "  start  and  stare  theatric  practised  at  the 
glass,"  but  by  strong  and  original  thoughts,  by 
brilliant  and  beautiful  illustrations,  and  by  the  an 
nouncement  of  immortal  and  glorious  hopes.  These 
broad  and  just  views  of  truth  and  duty,  and  of  the 
endless  variety  of  topics  proper  to  the  Christian 
pulpit,  with  his  rich  powers  of  illustration,  gave  to 
his  eloquence  an  influence  for  good,  over  all  classes, 
which  few  preachers  have  but  seldom  so  exten 
sively  diffused. 

In  describing  the  power  of  Dr.  Chalmers  as  a 
moral  and  religious  teacher,  it  is  proper  to  add,  that 
his  character,  demeanor,  and  principles  were  all  in 
harmony  with  his  office  and  duties.  No  flashes  of 


120  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

wit,  no  flights  of  fancy,  no  bold  or  vivid  descrip 
tions  of  the  imagination,  no  logical  acumen,  no 
power  or  compass  of  voice,  were  it  soft  and  change 
ful  as  the  jEolian  harp,  can  ever,  for  a  moment, 
compensate  for  a  defective  character. 

It  is  said,  that  truth  is  truth,  by  whomsoever 
delivered.  So  it  is.  But  as  a  wise  saying  is  un 
seemly  in  the  mouth  of  a  fool,  so  is  a  virtuous  one 
from  the  lips  of  a  vicious  man.  Men  spurn  at  it ; 
they  recoil  from  it ;  they  are  disgusted  with  it : 
they  contemptuously  say,  "  Physician,  heal  thyself." 
It  is  well  that  this  feeling  is  so  general ;  for  if  the 
splendor  of  a  minister's  sermons  reconciles  them  to 
his  follies,  they  will  soon  commit,  if  it  suits  them, 
the  same  follies  themselves.  One  thing  is  certain ; 
however  eloquent  such  ministers  may  be,  they  do 
nothing  to  strengthen  the  faith,  to  increase  the 
piety,  or  to  improve  the  morality  of  their  hearers. 

Now,  that  which  gave  such  a  beneficent  power 
to  the  ministry  of  Dr.  Chalmers  was,  that  every  one, 
learned  or  illiterate,  nobleman  or  commoner,  be 
lieved  him  to  be  a  most  worthy  man.  They  knew 
that  the  breath  of  suspicion  had  never  whispered 
aught  against  him,  nor  tarnished  the  brightness  of 
his  fame.  He  stood  up  before  the  public  without 
fear  and  without  reproach.  There  were  no  whis 
perings,  even  from  his  opponents,  that  he  was  no 
better  than  he  ought  to  be.  As  an  eloquent  orator, 
he  carried  with  him  the  firm  support  of  a  good 
name.  He  had  the  reputation  of  being  discreet, 
frank,  firm,  condescending.  He  was  stable,  uni- 


REV.  THOMAS    CHALMERS,  D.  D.  121 

form,  persevering.  There  was  nothing  fitful  in  his 
opinions  and  movements.  Hence  he  was  listened 
to,  as  an  oracle  to  be  trusted ;  and  he  was  followed 
as  a  guide  who  knew  where  he  was  going,  because 
he  had  seen  the  end  from  the  beginning. 

And  then  he  had  the  major  virtues  of  truth, 
honesty,  and  integrity,  blended  with  courteousness 
and  consideration.  He  was  above  all  artifice  ;  his 
honor  and  purity  were  untainted.  He  was  a  God 
fearing  and  a  sin-hating  man,  regarding  with  scru 
pulous  delicacy  all  the  proprieties  of  social  and 
domestic  life.  With  these  virtues  of  mind,  manners 
and  morals,  can  it  be  a  wonder  that,  in  his  own 
country,  he  was  heard  every  where  with  respect 
and  confidence  ;  and  that,  in  this  country,  his 
writings  are  read  by  thousands  of  our  most  intelli 
gent  Christians,  who  would  not  look  at  a  page  of 
them,  were  there  a  stain  upon  his  name  ?  This  was 
one  of  the  secrets  of  Chalmers'  power, —  the  rhetoric 
of  a  blameless,  nay,  of  an  active,  self-sacrificing, 
exceedingly  humane,  and  benevolent  life. 

It  was  not  merely  the  eloquence  of  Chalmers,  al 
though  that  was  great,  which,  while  living,  secured 
for  him  so  much  respect,  and  when  he  died  called 
forth  a  nation's  tears,  and  the  regrets  and  homage 
of  all  Christendom ;  but  it  was  his  purity,  his 
probity,  his  piety,  his  philanthropy,  in  alliance  with 
great  talents,  and  large  views  of  human  relations 
and  duties,  and  a  dignity  and  persuasiveness  of 
speech,  vouchsafed  but  to  few.  I  was  not  surprised 
to  learn,  that  on  receiving  the  news  of  his  decease. 
11 


122  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

both  the  "Assembly  of  the  Free  Church  of  Scot 
land,"  and  the  "  General  Assembly,"  (from  which 
he,  with  hundreds  of  other  ministers,  had  seceded, 
and  perhaps  mainly  through  his  influence,)  had 
voted  to  adjourn,  in  token  of  their  profound  regard 
and  veneration  for  the  character  and  services  of  Dr. 
Chalmers.  All  differences  were  forgotten,  in  the 
remembrance  that  the  "  eloquent  orator,"  who  had 
been  the  glory  of  that  church,  as  he  had  been  an 
honor  and  a  benefactor  to  his  nation,  had  suddenly 
passed  away. 

And  it  is  worthy  of  perpetual  remembrance,  as 
an  encouragement  for  persons  to  act  up  to  their 
own  convictions,  that,  seceder  as  he  was  from  the 
Established  Church  of  Scotland,  and  although  his 
pious  scruples,  in  regard  to  lay  patronage,  had  occa 
sioned  much  perplexity  to  those  who  were  attached 
to  the  ancient  order  of  things,  yet  neither  he  nor 
his  family  eventually  suffered  from  his  conscien 
tious  course.  Greatly  to  her  honor,  the  Queen  of 
Great  Britain,  from  the  consideration  that  Dr.  Chal 
mers  had  been  a  distinguished  ornament  and  bless 
ing  to  his  country,  settled  on  his  bereaved  widow 
and  her  family  a  pension  of  £200  a  year.  It  adds 
lustre  to  this  munificent  act,  that  it  was  unsolicited 
and  unexpected  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Chalmers  and 
her  friends.  It  was  a  spontaneous  expression  of 
sympathy  with  the  bereaved  widow,  and  of  respect 
for  the  illustrious  dead. 


RESIGNATION. 


BY     HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient !   these  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps, 
What  seem  to  us  but  dim  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 


124  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

There  is  no  Death  !    what  seems  so  is  transition  : 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school, 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  we  do  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  rapture  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 

But  a  fair  maiden  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful,  with  all  the  soul's  expansion, 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 


RESIGNATION.  125 

And  though,  at  times,  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 

That  cannot  be  at  rest ; 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  cannot  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


11 


THE    CHASE. 


BY    FRANCIS    PARKMAN,  JR. 

A  SHOUT  from  Henry  Chatillon  aroused  us,  and 
we  saw  him  standing  on  the  cart-wheel,  stretching 
his  tall  figure  to  its  full  height  while  he  looked 
toward  the  prairie  beyond  the  river.  Following 
the  direction  of  his  eyes,  we  could  clearly  distin 
guish  a  large  dark  object,  like  the  black  shadow  of 
a  cloud,  passing  rapidly  over  swell  after  swell  of 
the  distant  plain  ;  behind  it  followed  another  of 
-similar  appearance  though  smaller.  Its  motion  was 
more  rapid,  and  it  drew  closer  and  closer  to  the  first. 
It  was  the  hunters  of  the  Arapahoe  camp  pursuing 
a  band  of  buffalo.  Shaw  and  I  hastily  caught 
and  saddled  our  best  horses,  and  went  plunging 
through  sand  and  water  to  the  farther  bank.  We 
were  too  late.  The  hunters  had  already  mingled 
with  the  herd,  and  the  work  of  slaughter  was 
nearly  over.  When  we  reached  the  ground,  we 
found  it  strewn  far  and  near  with  numberless  black 
carcasses,  while  the  remnants  of  the  herd,  scattered 
in  all  directions,  were  flying  away  in  terror,  and 
the  Indians  still  rushing  in  pursuit.  Many  of  the 


THE    CHASE.  127 

hunters,  however,  remained  upon  the  spot,  and 
among  the  rest  was  our  yesterday's  acquaintance, 
the  chief  of  the  village.  He  had  alighted  by  the 
side  of  a  cow,  into  which  he  had  shot  five  or  six 
arrows,  and  his  squaw,  who  had  followed  him  on 
horseback  to  the  hunt,  was  giving  him  a  draught  of 
water  out  of  a  canteen,  purchased  or  plundered 
from  some  volunteer  soldier.  Re-crossing  the  river, 
we  overtook  the  party  who  were  already  on  their 
way. 

We  had  scarcely  gone  a  mile,  when  an  imposing 
spectacle  presented  itself.  From  the  river  bank  on 
the  right,  away  over  the  swelling  prairie  on  the 
left,  and  in  front  as  far  as  we  could  see,  extended 
one  vast  host  of  buffalo.  The  outskirts  of  the 
herd  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  In  many 
parts  they  were  crowded  so  densely  together,  that 
in  the  distance  their  rounded  backs  presented  a 
surface  of  uniform  blackness  ;  but  elsewhere  they 
were  more  scattered,  and  from  amid  the  multitude 
rose  little  columns  of  dust  where  the  buffalo  were 
rolling  on  the  ground.  Here  and  there  a  great 
confusion  was  perceptible,  where  a  battle  was  going 
forward  among  the  bulls.  We  could  distinctly  see 
them  rushing  against  each  other,  and  hear  the  clat 
tering  of  their  horns  and  their  hoarse  bellowing. 
Shaw  was  riding  at  some  distance  in  advance,  with 
Henry  Chatillon.  I  saw  him  stop  and  draw  the 
leather  covering  from  his  gun.  Indeed,  with  such 
a  sight  before  us,  but  one  thing  could  be  thought 
of.  That  morning  I  had  used  pistols  in  the  chase. 


128  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

I  had  now  a  mind  to  try  the  virtue  of  a  gun.  De- 
lorier  had  one,  and  I  rode  up  to  the  side  of  the  cart ; 
there  he  sat  under  the  white  covering,  biting  his 
pipe  between  his  teeth  and  grinning  with  excite 
ment. 

"  Lend  me  your  gun,  Delorier,"  said  I. 

"  Oui,  Monsieur,  oui,"  said  Delorier,  tugging  with 
might  and  main  to  stop  the  mule,  which  seemed 
obstinately  bent  on  going  forward.  Then  every 
thing  but  his  moccasons  disappeared,  as  he  crawled 
into  the  cart  and  pulled  at  the  gun  to  extricate  it. 

"Is  it  loaded?"  I  asked. 

"  Q,ui,  bien  charge,  you  '11  kill,  mon  bourgeois ; 
yes,  you'll  kill,  —  c'est  un  bon  fusil." 

I  handed  him  my  rifle,  and  rode  forward  to 
Shaw. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Come  on,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  down  that  hollow,"  said  Henry,  "  and 
then  they  won't  see  you  till  you  get  close  to  them." 

The  hollow  was  a  kind  of  ravine,  very  wide 
and  shallow;  it  ran  obliquely  toward  the  buffalo, 
and  we  rode  at  a  canter  along  the  bottom  until  it 
became  too  shallow ;  when  we  bent  close  to  our 
horses'  necks,  and  then  finding  that  it  could  no 
longer  conceal  us,  came  out  of  it  and  rode  directly 
toward  the  herd.  It  was  within  gunshot ;  before 
its  outskirts,  numerous  grizzly  old  bulls  were  scat 
tered,  holding  guard  over  their  females.  They 
glared  at  us  in  anger  and  astonishment,  walked 
.toward  us  a  few  yards,  and  then  turning  slowly 


THE    CHASE.  129 

round,  retreated  at  a  trot,  which  afterwards  broke 
into  a  clumsy  gallop.  In  an  instant  the  main  body 
caught  the  alarm.  The  buffalo  began  to  crowd 
away  from  the  point  toward  which  we  were 
approaching,  and  a  gap  was  opened  in  the  side 
of  the  herd.  We  entered  it,  still  restraining  our 
excited  horses.  Every  instant  the  tumult  was 
thickening.  The  buffalo,  pressing  together  in  large 
bodies,  crowded  away  from  us  on  every  hand.  In 
front  and  on  either  side  we  could  see  dark  columns 
and  masses,  half  hidden  by  clouds  of  dust,  rushing 
along  in  terror  and  confusion,  and  hear  the  tramp 
and  clattering  of  ten  thousand  hoofs.  That  count 
less  multitude  of  powerful  brutes,  ignorant  of  their 
own  strength,  were  flying  in  a  panic  from  the 
approach  of  two  feeble  horsemen.  To  remain  quiet 
longer  was  impossible. 

"  Take  that  band  on  the  left,"  said  Shaw ;  "  I  '11 
take  these  in  front." 

He  sprang  off,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him.  A 
heavy  Indian  whip  was  fastened  by  a  band  to  my 
wrist  ;  I  swung  it  into  the  air  and  lashed  my  horse's 
flank  with  all  the  strength  of  my  arm.  Away  she 
darted,  stretching  close  to  the  ground.  I  could  see 
nothing  but  a  cloud  of  dust  before  me,  but  I  knew 
that  it  concealed  a  band  of  many  hundreds  of  buf 
falo.  In  a  moment  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the  cloud, 
half  suffocated  by  the  dust  and  stunned  by  the 
trampling  of  the  flying  herd ;  but  I  was  drunk  with 
the  chase,  and  cared  for  nothing  but  the  buffalo. 
Very  soon  a  long  dark  mass  became  visible,  looming 


130  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

through  the  dust ;  then  I  could  distinguish  each 
bulky  carcass,  the  hoofs  flying  out  beneath,  the 
short  tails  held  rigidly  erect.  In  a  moment  I  was 
so  close  that  I  could  have  touched  them  with  my 
gun.  Suddenly,  to  my  utter  amazement,  the  hoofs 
were  jerked  upward,  the  tails  flourished  in  the  air, 
and  amid  a  cloud  of  dust  the  buffalo  seemed  to  sink 
into  the  earth  before  me.  One  vivid  impression  of 
that  instant  remains  upon  my  mind.  I  remember 
looking  down  upon  the  backs  of  several  buffalo 
dimly  visible  through  the  dust.  We  had  run  una 
wares  upon  a  ravine.  At  that  moment  I  was  not 
the  most  accurate  judge  of  depth  and  width,  but 
when  I  passed  it  on  my  return,  I  found  it  about 
twelve  feet  deep,  and  not  quite  twice  as  wide  at  the 
bottom.  It  was  impossible  to  stop ;  I  would  have 
done  so  gladly  if  I  could;  so  half  sliding,  half 
plunging,  down  went  the  little  mare.  I  believe 
she  came  down  on  her  knees  in  the  loose  sand  at 
the  bottom  ;  I  was  pitched  forward  violently  against 
her  neck,  and  nearly  thrown  over  her  head  among 
the  buffalo,  who  amid  dust  and  confusion  came 
tumbling  in  all  around.  The  mare  was  on  her 
feet  in  an  instant,  and  scrambling  like  a  cat  up  the 
opposite  side.  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  she 
would  have  fallen  back  and  crushed  me,  but  with 
a  violent  effort  she  clambered  out  and  gained  the 
hard  prairie  above.  Glancing  back,  I  saw  the  huge 
head  of  a  bull  clinging  as  it  were  by  the  forefeet 
at  the  edge  of  the  dusty  gulf.  At  length  I  was 
fairly  among  the  buffalo.  They  were  less  densely 


THE    CHASE.  131 

crowded  than  before,  and  I  could  see  nothing  but 
bulls,  who  always  run  at  the  rear  of  a  herd.  As  I 
passed  amid  them  they  would  lower  their  heads, 
and,  turning  as  they  ran,  attempt  to  gore  my  horse ; 
but  as  they  were  already  at  full  speed,  there  was  no 
force  in  their  onset,  and  as  Pauline  ran  faster  than 
they,  they  were  always  thrown  behind  her  in  the 
effort.  I  soon  began  to  distinguish  cows  amid  the 
throng.  One  just  in  front  of  me  seemed  to  my 
liking,  and  I  pushed  close  to  her  side.  Dropping 
the  reins  I  fired,  holding  the  muzzle  of  the  gun 
within  a  foot  of  her  shoulder.  Quick  as  lightning 
she  sprang  at  Pauline  ;  the  little  mare  dodged  the 
attack,  and  I  lost  sight  of  the  wounded  animal 
amid  the  tumultuous  crowd.  Immediately  after,  I 
selected  another,  and  urging  forward  Pauline,  shot 
into  her  both  pistols  in  succession.  For  a  while  I 
kept  her  in  view,  but  in  attempting  to  load  my  gun, 
lost  sight  of  her  also  in  the  confusion.  Believing 
her  to  be  mortally  wounded  and  unable  to  keep  up 
with  the  herd,  I  checked  my  horse.  The  crowd 
rushed  onward.  The  dust  and  tumult  passed  away, 
and  on  the  prairie,  far  behind  the  rest,  I  saw  a  soli 
tary  buffalo  galloping  heavily.  In  a  moment  I  and 
my  victim  were  running  side  by  side.  My  firearms 
were  all  empty,  and  I  had  in  my  pouch  nothing  but 
rifle  bullets,  too  large  for  the  pistols  and  too  small 
for  the  gun.  I  loaded  the  latter,  however,  but  as 
often  as  I  levelled  it  to  fire,  the  little  bullets  would 
roll  out  of  the  muzzle  and  the  gun  returned  only  a 
faint  report  like  a  squib,  as  the  powder  harmlessly 


132  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

exploded.  I  galloped  in  front  of  the  buffalo  and 
attempted  to  turn  her  back  ;  but  her  eyes  glared, 
her  mane  bristled,  and  lowering  her  head,  she 
rushed  at  me  with  astonishing  fierceness  and  acti 
vity.  Again  and  again  I  rode  before  her,  and  again 
and  again  she  repeated  her  furious  charge.  But 
little  Pauline  was  in  her  element.  She  dodged  her 
enemy  at  every  rush,  until  at  length  the  buffalo  stood 
still,  exhausted  with  her  own  efforts ;  she  panted, 
and  her  tongue  hung  lolling  from  her  jaws. 

Riding  to  a  little  distance,  I  alighted,  thinking  to 
gather  a  handful  of  dry  grass  to  serve  the  purpose 
of  wadding,  and  load  the  gun  at  my  leisure.  No 
sooner  were  my  feet  on  the  ground,  than  the  buffalo 
came  bounding  in  such  a  rage  toward  me,  that  I 
jumped  back  again  into  the  saddle  with  all  possible 
dispatch.  After  waiting  a  few  minutes  more,  I 
made  an  attempt  to  ride  up  and  stab  her  with  my 
knife ;  but  the  experiment  proved  such  as  no  wise 
man  would  repeat.  At  length,  bethinking  me  of 
the  fringes  at  the  seams  of  my  buckskin  pantaloons. 
I  jerked  off  a  few  of  them,  and  reloading  the  gun, 
forced  them  down  the  barrel  to  keep  the  bullet  in 
its  place  •  then  approaching,  I  shot  the  wounded 
buffalo  through  the  heart.  Sinking  to  her  knees, 
she  rolled  over  lifeless  on  the  prairie.  To  my 
astonishment,  I  found  that,  instead  of  a  fat  cow,  I 
had  been  slaughtering  a  stout  yearling  bull.  No 
longer  wondering  at  the  fierceness  he  had  shown, 
I  opened  his  throat,  and  cutting  out  his  tongue,  tied 
it  at  the  back  of  my  saddle.  My  mistake  was  one 


THE    CHASE.  133 

which  a  more  experienced  eye  than  mine  might 
easily  make  in  the  dust  and  confusion  of  such  a 
chase. 

Then  for  the  first  time  I  had  leisure  to  look  at 
the  scene  around  me.  The  prairie  in  front  was 
darkened  with  the  retreating  multitude,  and  on  the 
other  hand  the  buifalo  came  filing  up  in  endless, 
unbroken  columns  from  the  low  plains  upon  the 
river.  The  Arkansas  was  three  or  four  miles  dis 
tant.  I  turned  and  moved  slowly  toward  it.  A 
long  time  passed  before,  far  down  in  the  distance,  I 
distinguished  the  white  covering  of  the  cart  and  the 
little  black  specks  of  horsemen  before  and  behind 
it.  Drawing  near,  I  recognized  Shaw's  elegant 
tunic,  the  red  flannel  shirt  conspicuous  far  off.  I 
overtook  the  party,  and  asked  him  what  success  he 
had  met  with.  He  had  assailed  a  fat  cow,  shot  her 
with  two  bullets,  and  mortally  wounded  her.  But 
neither  of  us  were  prepared  for  the  chase  that  after 
noon,  and  Shaw,  like  myself,  had  no  spare  bullets 
in  his  pouch ;  so  he  abandoned  the  disabled  animal 
to  Henry  Chatillon,  who  followed,  dispatched  her 
with  his  rifle,  and  loaded  his  horse  with  her  meat. 

We  encamped  close  to  the  river.  The  night  was 
dark,  and  as  we  lay  down,  we  could  hear  mingled 
with  the  howlings  of  wolves  the  hoarse  bellowing 
of  the  buffalo,  like  the  ocean  beating  upon  a  distant 
coast. 

12 


"FORGET   ME   NOT.' 


BY    EPES    SARGENT. 


"  FORGET  me  not  ?  "    Ah,  words  of  useless  warning 
To  one  whose  heart  is  henceforth  memory's  shrine  ! 

Sooner  the  skylark  might  forget  the  morning, 
Than  I  forget  a  look,  a  tone  of  thine. 

Sooner  the  sunflower  might  forget  to  waken 
When  the  first  radiance  lights  the  eastern  hill, 

Than  I,  by  daily  thoughts  of  thee  forsaken, 
Feel,  as  they  kindle,  no  expanding  thrill. 

Oft,  when  at  night  the  deck  I  'm  pacing  lonely, 
Or  when  I  pause  to  watch  some  fulgent  star, 

Will  Contemplation  be  retracing  only 

Thy  form,  and  fly  to  greet  thee,  though  afar. 

When  storms  unleashed,  with  fearful  clangor  sweeping, 
Drive  our  strained  bark  along  the  hollowed  sea, 

When  to  the  clouds  the  foam-topped  waves  are  leaping. 
Even  then  I  '11  not  forget,  beloved  one,  thee  ! 


"FORGET  ME  NOT."  135 

Thy  image,  in  my  sorrow-shaded  hours, 
Will,  like  a  sun-burst  on  the  waters,  shine  ; 

'Twill  be  as  grateful  as  the  breath  of  flowers 
From  some  green  island  wafted  o'er  the  brine. 

And  O,  sweet  lady,  when,  from  home  departed, 
I  count  the  leagues  between  us  with  a  sigh, — 

When,  at  the  thought,  perchance  a  tear  has  started, 
May  I  not  dream  in  heart  thou  'rt  sometimes  nigh  ? 

Ay,  thou  wilt  sometimes,  when  the  wine-cup  passes, 
And  friends  are  gathering  round  in  festal  glee, 

While  bright  eyes  flash  as  flash  the  brimming  glasses, 
Let  silent  Memory  pledge  one  health  to  me. 

Farewell !    My  fatherland  is  disappearing 
Faster  and  faster  from  my  baffled  sight ; 

The  winds  rise  wildly,  and  thick  clouds  are  rearing 
Their  ebon  flags  that  hasten  on  the  night. 

Farewell !    The  pilot  leaves  us  ;  seaward  gliding, 
Our  brave  ship  dashes  through  the  foamy  swell ; 

But  Hope,  forever  faithful  and  abiding, 

Hears  distant  welcomes  in  this  last  farewell ! 


PERSONAL  CHARACTER  OF  SIR  WALTER 
SCOTT. 


BY    WILLIAM   H.    PRESCOTT. 

TAKE  it  for  all  and  all,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say, 
that  this  character  is  probably  the  most  remarkable 
on  record.  There  is  no  man  of  historical  celebrity 
that  we  now  recall,  who  combined,  in  so  eminent  a 
degree,  the  highest  qualities  of  the  moral,  the  in 
tellectual,  and  the  physical.  He  united  in  his  own 
character  what  hitherto  had  been  found  incompati 
ble.  Though  a  poet,  and  living  in  an  ideal  world, 
he  was  an  exact,  methodical  man  of  business  ; 
though  achieving  with  the  most  wonderful  facility 
of  genius,  he  was  patient  and  laborious ;  a  mousing 
antiquarian,  yet  with  the  most  active  interest  in  the 
present,  and  whatever  was  going  on  around  him ; 
with  a  strong  turn  for  a  roving  life  and  military 
adventure,  he  was  yet  chained  to  his  desk  more 
hours,  at  some  periods  of  his  life,  than  a  monkish 
recluse  ;  a  man  with  a  heart  as  capacious  as  his 
head  ;  a  Tory,  brim  full  of  Jacobitism,  yet  full 
of  sympathy  and  unaffected  familiarity  with  all 
classes,  even  the  humblest ;  a  successful  author. 


CHARACTER    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT.  137 

without  pedantry  and  without  conceit ;  one,  in 
deed,  at  the  head  of  the  republic  of  letters,  and  yet 
with  a  lower  estimate  of  letters,  as  compared  with 
other  intellectual  pursuits,  than  was  ever  hazarded 
before. 

The  first  quality  of  his  character,  or,  rather,  that 
which  forms  the  basis  of  it,  as  of  all  great  charac 
ters,  was  his  energy.  We  see  it,  in  his  early  youth, 
triumphing  over  the  impediments  of  nature,  and,  in 
spite  of  lameness,  making  him  conspicuous  in  every 
sort  of  athletic  exercise  j  clambering  up  dizzy  pre 
cipices,  wading  through  treacherous  fords,  and  per 
forming  feats  of  pedestrianism  that  make  one's 
joints  ache  to  read  of.  As  he  advanced  in  life,  we 
see  the  same  force  of  purpose  turned  to  higher 
objects.  A  striking  example  occurs  in  his  organiza 
tion  of  the  journals  and  the  publishing  house  in 
opposition  to  Constable.  In  what  Herculean  drudg 
ery  did  not  this  latter  business,  in  which  he  un 
dertook  to  supply  matter  for  the  nimble  press  of 
Ballantyne,  involve  him  !  while,  in  addition  to  his 
own  concerns,  he  had  to  drag  along  by  his  solitary 
momentum  a  score  of  heavier  undertakings,  that 
led  Lockhart  to  compare  him  to  a  steam-engine, 
with  a  train  of  coal  wagons  hitched  to  it. 

We  see  the  same  powerful  energies  triumphing 
over  disease  at  a  later  period,  when  nothing  but  a 
resolution  to  get  the  better  of  it  enabled  him  to  do 
so.  "  Be  assured,"  he  remarked  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "  that 
if  pain  could  have  prevented  my  application  to  lit 
erary  labor,  not  a  page  of  Ivanhoe  would  have  been 
12* 


138  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

written.  Now  if  I  had  given  way  to  mere  feelings, 
and  ceased  to  work,  it  is  a  question  whether  the 
disorder  might  not  have  taken  a  deeper  root,  and 
become  incurable."  But  the  most  extraordinary 
instance  of  this  trait  is  the  readiness  with  which 
he  assumed,  arid  the  spirit  with  which  he  carried 
through,  till  his  mental  strength  broke  down  under 
it,  the  gigantic  task  imposed  on  him  by  the  failure 
of  Constable. 

It  mattered  little  what  the  nature  of  the  task 
was,  whether  it  were  organizing  an  opposition  to  a 
political  faction,  or  a  troop  of  cavalry  to  resist 
invasion,  or  a  medley  of  wild  Highlanders  or  Edin 
burgh  cockneys  to  make  up  a  royal  puppet-show  — 
a  loyal  celebration  —  for  "  His  Most  Sacred  Majes 
ty  " — he  was  the  master-spirit  that  gave  the  cue  to 
the  whole  dramatis  personce.  This  potent  impulse 
showed  itself  in  the  thoroughness  with  which  he 
prescribed,  not  merely  the  general  orders,  but  the 
execution  of  the  minutest  details,  in  his  own  person. 
Thus  all  around  him  was  the  creation,  as  it  were, 
of  his  individual  exertion.  His  lands  waved  with 
forests  planted  with  his  own  hands,  and,  in  process 
of  time,  cleared  by  his  own  hands.  He  did  not  lay 
the  stones  in  mortar,  exactly,  for  his  whimsical 
castle,  but  he  seems  to  have  superintended  the 
operation  from  the  foundation  to  the  battlements. 
The  antique  relics,  the  curious  works  of  art,  the 
hangings  and  furniture,  even,  with  which  his  halls 
were  decorated,  were  specially  contrived  or  selected 
by  him ;  and,  to  read  his  letters  at  this  time  to  his 


CHARACTER    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT.  139 

friend  Terry,  one  might  fancy  himself  perusing  the 
correspondence  of  an  upholsterer,  so  exact  and  tech 
nical  is  he  in  his  instructions.  We  say  this  not 
in  disparagement  of  his  great  qualities.  It  is  only 
the  more  extraordinary  ;  for,  while  he  stooped  to 
such  trifles,  he  was  equally  thorough  in  matters  of 
the  highest  moment.  It  was  a  trait  of  character. 

Another  quality,  which,  like  the  last,  seems  to 
have  given  the  tone  to  his  character,  was  his  social 
or  benevolent  feelings.  His  heart  was  an  unfailing 
fountain,  which  not  merely  the  distresses,  but  the 
joys  of  his  fellow-creatures  made  to  flow  like  water. 
In  early  life,  and  possibly  sometimes  in  later,  high 
spirits  and  a  vigorous  constitution  led  him  occasion 
ally  to  carry  his  social  propensities  into  convivial 
excess ;  but  he  never  was  in  danger  of  the  habitual 
excess  to  which  a  vulgar  mind, — and  sometimes, 
alas !  one  more  finely  tuned,  —  abandons  itself. 
With  all  his  conviviality,  it  was  not  the  sensual 
relish,  but  the  social,  which  acted  on  him.  He  was 
neither  gourme  nor  gourmand  ;  but  his  social  meet 
ings  were  endeared  to  him  by  the  free  interchange 
of  kindly  feelings  with  his  friends. 

Scott  was  not  one  of  the  little  great.  His  was 
not  one  of  those  dark-lantern  visages  which  concen 
trate  all  their  light  on  their  own  path,  arid  are  black 
as  midnight  to  all  about  them.  He  had  a  ready 
sympathy,  a  word  of  contagious  kindness,  or  cordial 
greeting,  for  all.  His  manners,  too,  were  of  a  kind 
to  dispel  the  icy  reserve  and  awe  which  his  great 
name  was  calculated  to  inspire.  His  frank  address 


140  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

was  a  sort  of  open  sesame  to  every  heart.  He  did 
not  deal  in  sneers,  the  poisoned  weapons  which 
came  not  from  the  head,  as  the  man  who  launches 
them  is  apt  to  think,  but  from  an  acid  heart,  or, 
perhaps,  an  acid  stomach,  a  very  common  laboratory 
of  such  small  artillery.  Neither  did  Scott  amuse 
the  company  with  parliamentary  harangues  'or  meta 
physical  disquisitions.  His  conversation  was  of  the 
narrative  kind,  not  formal,  but  as  casually  suggested 
by  some  passing  circumstance  or  topic,  and  thrown 
in  by  way  of  illustration.  He  did  not  repeat  him 
self,  however,  but  continued  to  give  his  anecdotes 
such  variations,  by  rigging  them  out  in  a  new 
"  cocked  hat  and  walking-cane,"  as  he  called  it, 
that  they  never  tired  like  the  thrice-told  tale  of 
a  chronic  raconteur.  He  allowed  others,  too,  to 
take  their  turn,  and  thought  with  the  Dean  of  St. 
Patrick's :  — 

"  Carve  to  all,  but  just  enough, 
Let  them  neither  starve  nor  stuff: 
And,  that  you  may  have  your  due, 
Let  your  neighbors  carve  for  you." 

He  relished  a  good  joke,  from  whatever  quarter  it 
came,  and  was  not  over-dainty  in  his  manner  of 
testifying  his  satisfaction.  "  In  the  full  tide  of 
mirth,  he  did  indeed  laugh  the  heart's  laugh,"  says 
Mr.  Adolphus.  "  Give  me  an  honest  laugher,"  said 
Scott  himself,  on  another  occasion,  when  a  buckram 
man  of  fashion  had  been  paying  him  a  visit  at 
Abbotsford.  His  manners,  free  from  affectation  or 
artifice  of  any  sort,  exhibited  the  spontaneous  move- 


CHARACTER    OF    SIR    WALTER    SCOTT.  141 

ments  of  a  kind  disposition,  subject  to  those  rules  of 
good  breeding  which  Nature  herself  might  have 
dictated.  In  this  way  he  answered  his  own  pur 
pose  admirably  as  a  painter  of  character,  by  putting 
every  man  in  good  humor  with  himself,  in  the 
same  manner  as  a  cunning  portrait  painter  amuses 
his  sitters  with  such  store  of  fun  and  anecdote  as 
may  throw  them  off  their  guard,  and  call  out  the 
happiest  expressions  of  their  countenances. 


DEDICATION  OF  A  LYCEUM  HALL. 


BY    JOHN    PIERPONT. 


KNOWLEDGE  and  Virtue  !  sister  powers, 
Who  guard  and  grace  a  Christian  state, 

Better  than  bulwarks,  walls,  or  towers, 
To  you  this  hall  we  dedicate. 

Temple  of  Science  !  through  thy  door, 
Now  first  thrown  open,  do  we  throng, 

And  reverently  stand  before 

Creation's  God,  with  prayer  and  song. 

Father  of  lights  !  thou  gav'st  us  eyes, 
Earth,  ocean,  sun,  and  stars  to  see, 

And  thee  in  all  ;  —  they  roll  or  rise 
To  teach  us  of  thy  majesty. 

Works  of  his  hand  !  where'er  ye  lie, 
In  earth  or  heaven,  in  light  or  shade, 

These  walls  shall  to  your  voice  reply ; 
Here  shall  your  wonders  be  displayed. 


DEDICATION  OF  A  LYCEUM  HALL.  143 

Trees  !  that  in  field  or  forest  stand, 

Flowers  !  that  spring  up  in  every  zone, 
Winds !  that  with  fragrance  fill  your  hand, 

Where  trees  have  leafed,  or  flowers  have  blown,  — 

Suns  !  in  the  depths  of  space  that  burn, 

Planets  !  that  walk  around  our  own, 
Comets !  that  rush  to  fill  your  urn 

With  light  out- gushing  from  his  throne,  — 

Waters !  from  all  the  earth  that  rise, 

And  back  to  all  its  oceans  go, 
Cooling,  in  clouds,  the  flaming  skies, 

Cheering,  in  rains,  the  world  below,  — 

Torrents  !  that  down  the  mountain  rush, 

Glaciers  !  that  on  its  shoulders  shine, 
Pearls !  in  your  ocean  bed  that  blush, 

Diamonds  !  yet  sleeping  in  your  mine,  — 

Lightnings  !  that  from  your  cloud  leap  out, 

Thunders !  that  in  its  bosom  sleep, 
Fires  !  that  from  Etna's  crater  spout, 

Rocks!  that  the  earthquake's  records  keep, — 

Rainbows  !  that  overarch  a  storm, 

Or  dance  around  a  waterfall, 
Tornadoes !  that  earth's  face  deform,  — 

Teach  us,  O  teach  us,  in  this  hall. 


VALUE  OF  MECHANICAL  INDUSTRY. 


BY    RUFUS    CHOATE. 


DOUBTLESS,  to  the  higher  forms  of  a  complete 
civilization,  a  various,  extensively  developed,  intel 
lectual  manufacturing  and  mechanical  industry, 
aiming  to  multiply  the  comforts  and  supply  the 
wants  of  the  great  body  of  the  people,  is  wholly 
indispensable.  Its  propitious  influence  upon  the 
wages  and  enjoyments  of  labor  j  the  reasonable 
rewards  which  it  holds  out  by  means  of  joint  stock, 
in  shares,  to  all  capital,  whether  the  one  hundred 
dollars  of  the  widow  and  orphan,  or  the  one  hundred 
thousand  of  their  wealthier  neighbor  j  its  propitious 
influence  upon  all  the  other  employments  of  society  : 
upon  agriculture,  by  relieving  it  of  over-production 
and  over-competition,  and  securing  it  a  market  at 
home,  without  shutting  up  its  market  abroad  ;  upon 
commerce,  creating  or  mainly  sustaining  its  best 
branch,  domestic  trade,  and  giving  to  its  foreign 
trade  variety,  flexibility,  an  enlargement  of  field, 
and  the  means  of  commanding  a  needful  supply  of 
the  productions  of  other  nations,  without  exhausting 
drains  on  our  own ;  its  influence  upon  the  comforts 


VALUE    OF    MECHANICAL    INDUSTRY.  145 

of  the  poor ;  upon  refinement ;  upon  security ; 
defence  ;  independence  ;  power  j  nationality  ;  all 
this  is  conceded  by  every  body.  Senators  de 
nounce  the  means,  but  they  glorify  the  end.  Pro 
tective  duties  make  a  bill  of  abominations ;  but  an 
advanced  and  diversified  mechanical  industry  is 
excellent.  The  harvest  is  delightful  to  behold  ;  it 
is  the  sowing  and  fencing  only  that  offends  the 
constitutionalist  who  denies  the  power,  and  the 
economist  who  denies  the  expediency,  of  reaping 
any  thing  but  spontaneous  growths  of  untilled  soils. 
While,  therefore,  a  general  defence  of  this  class  of 
employments,  and  this  species  of  industry,  would 
be  wholly  out  of  place,  there  is,  however,  an  illus 
tration  or  two  of  their  uses,  not  quite  so  commonly 
adverted  to,  on  which  I  pause  to  say  a  word.  And 
one  of  them  is  this :  that,  in  connection  with  the 
other  tasks  of  an  advanced  civilization,  with  which 
they  are  always  found  associated,  they  offer  to  every 
faculty,  and  talent,  and  taste,  in  the  community, 
the  specific  work  best  suited  to  it ;  and  thus  effect 
a  more  universal  development  and  a  more  complete 
education  of  the  general  intellect  than  otherwise 
would  be  practicable.  It  is  not  merely  that  they 
keep  every  body  busy,  in  the  evening  and  before 
light  as  well  as  in  the  daytime,  in  winter  as  well  as 
in  summer,  in  wet  weather  as  well  as  in  fair,  women 
and  children  as  well  as  men,  but  it  is  that  every 
body  is  enabled  to  be  busy  on  the  precise  thing  the 
best  adapted  to  his  capacity  and  his  inclinations. 
In  a  country  of  few  occupations,  employments  go 
13 


146  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

down  by  an  arbitrary,  hereditary,  coercive  desig 
nation,  without  regard  to  peculiarities  of  individual 
character.  The  son  of  a  priest  is  a  priest ;  the  son 
of  a  barber  is  a  barber  j  a  man  raises  onions  and 
garlic,  because  a  certain  other  person  did  so  when 
the  Pyramids  were  building,  centuries  ago.  But  a 
diversified,  advanced,  and  refined  mechanical  and 
manufacturing  industry,  co-operating  with  these 
other  numerous  employments  of  civilization  which 
always  surround  it,  offers  the  widest  choice  ;  detects 
the  slightest  shade  of  individuality  j  quickens  into 
existence  and  trains  to  perfection  the  largest  con 
ceivable  amount  and  the  utmost  possible  variety  of 
national  mind.  It  goes  abroad  with  its  handmaid 
labors,  not  like  the  elegiac  poet  into  the  churchyard, 
but  among  the  bright  tribes  of  living  childhood,  and 
manhood,  and  finds  there,  in  more  than  a  figurative 
sense,  some  mute,  inglorious  Milton,  to  whom  it 
gives  a  tongue  and  the  opportunity  of  fame ;  the 
dauntless  breast  of  some  Hampden  still  at  play,  yet 
born  to  strive  with  the  tyrant  of  more  than  a  vil 
lage  ;  infant  hands  that  may  one  day  sway  the  rod 
of  empire  ;  hearts  already  pregnant  with  celestial 
fire ;  future  Arkwrights,  and  Watts,  and  Whitneys, 
and  Fultons,  whom  it  leads  forth  to  a  discipline  and 
a  career  that  may  work  a  revolution  in  the  arts  and 
commerce  of  the  world.  Here  are  five  sons  in  a 
family.  In  some  communities  they  would  all 
become  hedgers  and  ditchers;  in  others,  shore 
fishermen ;  in  others,  hired  men  in  fields,  or  porters 
or  servants  in  noblemen's  families.  But  see  what 


VALUE    OF    MECHANICAL    INDUSTRY.  147 

the  diversified  employments  of  civilization  may 
make  of  them.  One  has  a  passion  for  contention, 
and  danger,  and  adventure.  There  are  the  gigantic 
game  of  the  sea ;  the  vast  fields  of  the  Pacific  ;  the 
pursuit  even  "beneath  the  frozen  serpent  of  the 
South,"  for  him.  Another  has  a  taste  for  trade  ; 
he  plays  already  at  bargains  and  barter.  There 
are  Wall-street,  and  Milk-street,  and  clerkships  and 
agencies  at  Manilla,  and  Canton,  and  Rio  Janeiro, 
for  him.  A, third  early  and  seriously  inclines  to  the 
quiet  life,  the  fixed  habits,  the  hereditary  opinions 
and  old  ways  of  his  fathers ;  there  is  the  plough  for 
him.  Another  develops  from  infancy  extraordinary 
mechanical  and  inventive  talent ;  extraordinary  in 
degree,  of  not  yet  ascertained  direction.  You  see 
it  in  his  first  whittling.  There  may  be  a  Fulton, 
or  an  Arkwright ;  there  may  be  wrapped  up  the 
germs  of  an  idea  which,  realized,  shall  change  the 
industry  of  nations,  and  give  a  new  name  to  a  new 
era.  Well,  there  are  the  machine  shops  at  Lowell 
and  Providence  for  him ;  there  are  cotton  mills  and 
woollen  mills  for  him  to  superintend ;  there  is  sta 
tionary  and  locomotive  steam  power  for  him  to  guide 
and  study ;  of  a  hundred  departments  and  forms  of 
useful  art,  some  one  will  surely  reach  and  feed  the 
ruling  intellectual  passion.  In  the  flashing  eye, 
beneath  the  pale  and  beaming  brow  of  that  other 
one,  you  detect  the  solitary  first  thoughts  of  genius. 
There  are  the  seashore  of  storm  or  calm,  the  waning 
moon,  the  stripes  of  summer  evening  cloud,  tradi 
tions,  and  all  the  food  of  the  soul,  for  him.  And  so 


148  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

all  the  boys  are  provided  for.  Every  fragment  of 
mind  is  gathered  up.  Nothing  is  lost.  The  hazel 
rod,  with  unfailing  potency,  points  out,  separates, 
and  gives  to  sight  every  grain  of  gold  in  the  water 
and  in  the  sand.  Every  taste,  every  faculty,  every 
peculiarity  of  mental  power,  finds  its  task,  does  it, 
and  is  made  the  better  for  it. 

Let  me  say,  that  there  is  another  influence  of 
manufacturing  and  mechanical  arts  and  industry, 
which  should  commend  them  to  the  favor  of 
American  statesmen.  In  all  ages  and  in  all  nations 
they  have  been  the  parents  and  handmaids  of  popu 
lar  liberty.  If  I  had  said  of  democratical  liberty,  I 
should  have  expressed  myself  more  accurately* 
This  praise,  if  not  theirs  alone,  or  pre-eminently, 
they  share  perhaps  with  commerce  only.  I  observe, 
with  surprise,  that  Mr.  Calhoun,  in  his  speech  in 
opposition  to  Mr.  Randolph's  motion  to  strike  out  the 
minimum  valuation  on  cotton  goods,  in  the  House 
of  Representatives,  April,  1816,  a  speech  in  many 
respects  remarkable  and  instructive,  and  to  which 
I  shall  make  frequent  reference  before  I  have 
done,  —  in  that  speech  Mr.  Calhoun  gives  some 
slight  countenance  to  the  suggestion  that  "  capital 
employed  in  manufacturing  produced  a  greater 
dependence  on  the  part  of  the  employed,  than  in 
commerce,  navigation,  or  agriculture."  I  think  this 
is  contradicted  by  the  history  of  the  whole  world. 
"  Millioriary  manufacturing  capitalists,"  like  all  other 
persons  possessed  of  large  accumulations,  are  essen 
tially  conservative,  timorous,  disinclined  to  change, 


VALUE    OF    MECHANICAL    INDUSTRY.  149 

on  the  side  of  law,  order,  and  permanence.  So  are 
millionary  commercial  capitalists,  and  millionary 
cotton-growing  and  sugar-growing  capitalists,  and 
millionary  capitalists  of  all  sorts.  But  the  artisans 
of  towns, — mechanics,  manufacturing  operatives, 
that  whole  city  and  village  population,  wherever 
concentrated,  by  whom  the  useful  arts  of  a  civilized 
society  are  performed, —  are  among  the  freest  of  the 
free,  the  world  over.  They  are  no  man's  slaves  ; 
they  are  "no  man's  men."  Brought  together  in 
considerable  numbers,  and  forming  part  of  a  still 
larger  urban  population  in  immediate  contact ;  recip 
rocally  acting  on  and  acted  on  by  numerous  other 
minds :  enjoying  every  day  some  time  of  leisure, 
and  driven  by  the  craving  for  stimulus  which  the 
monotony  of  their  employments,  their  own  mental 
activity,  and  all  the  influences  about  them,  are  so 
well  calculated  to  produce  ;  driven  to  the  search  of 
some  external  objects  of  interest,  they  find  these  in 
conversation,  in  discussion,  in  reading  newspapers 
and  books,  in  all  the  topics  which  agitate  the 
crowded  community  of  which  they  are  part ;  and 
thus  they  become  curious,  flexible,  quick,  progres 
sive.  Something  too  in  their  position  and  relations ; 
just  starting  in  the  world,  their  fortunes  to  seek  or 
to  make  ;  something  in  their  half  antagonistical,  half 
auxiliary  connection  with  their  employers ;  free  asso 
ciated  labor  employed  by  large  associated  capital; 
something,  with  unfailing  certainty,  determines 
them  to  the  side  of  the  largest  liberty.  So  always 
it  has  been.  So  it  was  in  the  freest  of  the  Greek 
13* 


150  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

republics.  So  too,  in  the  middle  ages,  after  her 
sleep  of  a  thousand  years  from  the  battle  of  Phar- 
salia,  liberty  revived  and  respired  among  the  handi 
craftsmen  and  traders  of  the  small  commercial  and 
manufacturing  towns  of  Germany,  Italy,  and  Eng 
land.  There,  in  sight  of  the  open  and  glorious  sea, 
law,  order,  self-government,  popular  liberty,  art, 
taste,  and  all  the  fair  variety  of  cultivated  things, 
sprang  up  together,  and  set  out  together  on  that 
"  radiant  round,"  never  to  cease  but  with  the  close 
of  time.  And  where  do  you  feel  the  pulses  of 
democratical  England  and  Scotland  beat  quickest 
and  hottest  to-day  ?  What  are  the  communities 
that  called  loudest  for  parliamentary  reform  •  and 
call  loudest  now  for  those  social  arid  political 
ameliorations,  the  fear  of  which  perplexes  the 
throne,  the  church,  and  the  aristocracy  ?  Certainly, 
the  large  and  small  manufacturing  towns.  "  The 
two  great  powers,  (I  read  from  the  ablest  Tory 
journal  in  Great  Britain,)  operating  on  human  affairs, 
which  are  producing  this  progressive  increase  of 
democratical  influence,  are  the  extension  of  manu 
factures  and  the  influence  of  the  daily  press." 
What  British  periodical  is  it,  which  most  zealously 
advocates  the  cause,  asserts  the  dignity,  appreciates 
the  uses  and  claims,  of  manufacturing  industry  ? 
Precisely  the  most  radical  and  revolutionary  of  them 
all.  And  whose  rhymes  are  those  which  convey 
to  the  strong,  sad  heart  of  English  labor,  "  thoughts 
that  wake  to  perish  never,"  the  germs  of  a  culture 
growing  up  to  everlasting  life,  the  "public  and 


VALUE    OF    MECHANICAL    INDUSTRY.  151 

private  sense  of  a  man ;  "  the  dream,  the  hope,  of 
social  reform  j  and  a  better,  but  not  revolutionary 
liberty !  Whose,  but  Elliot's,  the  worker  in  iron, 
the  "  artisan  poet  of  the  poor  ? " 

The  real  truth  is,  that  manufacturing  and  me 
chanical,  and  commercial  industry,  is  "  the  prolific 
source  of  democratic  feeling."  Of  the  two  great 
elements,  which  must  be  combined  in  all  great 
ness  of  national  character  and  national  destiny, 
permanence,  and  progression,  these  employments 
stimulate  the  latter ;  agriculture  contributes  to  the 
former.  They  are  one  of  those  acting  and  counter 
acting,  opposing  yet  not  discordant  powers,  from 
whose  reciprocal  struggle  is  drawn  out  the  harmony 
of  the  universe.  Agriculture  is  the  other.  The 
country  is  the  home  of  rest.  The  town  is  the 
theatre  of  change.  Senators  are  very  fond  of 
reminding  us  that  the  census  shows  so  large  a 
preponderance  of  numbers  at  work  on  the  land. 
Then,  over  and  above  all  the  good  you  do  them, 
by  calling  off  some  who  would  crowd  that  employ 
ment  into  other  business,  and  providing  a  better 
market  for  those  who  remain  in  it,  why  should  you 
be  afraid,  on  a  larger  and  deeper  reason,  to  temper 
and  attend  this  by  other  occupation  ?  You  have 
provided  well  for  permanence.  Be  not  afraid  of  the 
agents  of  intelligent  progress.  It  is  the  union  of 
social  labors  which  causes  the  wealth,  develops  the 
mind,  prolongs  the  career,  and  elevates  and  adorns 
the  history  of  nations. 


MARY. 


BY    HENRY    T.    TUCKERMAN. 


WHAT  though  the  name  is  old  and  oft  repeated, 

What  though  a  thousand  beings  bear  it  now ; 
And  true  hearts  oft  the  gentle  word  have  greeted, 

What  though  't  is  hallow'd  by  a  poet's  vow  ? 
We  ever  love  the  rose,  and  yet  its  blooming 

Is  a  familiar  rapture  to  the  eye, 
And  yon  bright  star  we  hail,  although  its  looming 

Age  after  age  has  lit  the  northern  sky. 

As  starry  beams  o'er  troubled  billows  stealing, 

As  garden  odors  to  the  desert  blown, 
In  bosoms  faint  a  gladsome  hope  revealing, 

Like  patriot  music  or  affection's  tone,  — 
Thus,  thus,  for  aye,  the  name  of  MARY  spoken 

By  lips  or  text,  with  magic-like  control, 
The  course  of  present  thought  has  quickly  broken 

And  stirred  the  fountains  of  my  inmost  soul. 


MARY.  153 

The  sweetest  tales  of  human  weal  and  sorrow, 

The  fairest  trophies  of  the  limner's  fame, 
To  my  fond  fancy,  MARY,  seem  to  borrow 

Celestial  halos  from  thy  gentle  name  ; 
The  Grecian  artist  gleaned  from  many  faces, 

And  in  a  perfect  whole  the  parts  combined, 
So  have  I  counted  o'er  dear  woman's  graces 

To  form  the  MARY  of  my  ardent  mind. 

And  marvel  not  I  thus  call  my  ideal, 

We  inly  paint  as  we  would  have  things  be, 
The  fanciful  springs  ever  from  the  real, 

As  APHRODITE  rose  from  out  the  sea ; 
Who  smiled  upon  me  kindly  day  by  day, 

In  a  far  land  where  I  was  sad  and  lone  ? 
Whose  presence  now  is  my  delight  alway  ? 

Both  angels  must  the  same  bless'd  title  own. 

What  spirits  round  my  weary  way  are  flying, 

What  fortunes  on  my  future  life  await, 
Like  the  mysterious  hymns  the  winds  are  sighing, 

Are  all  unknown,  —  in  trust  I  bide  my  fate  ; 
But  if  one  blessing  I  might  crave  from  Heaven, 

'T  would  be  that  MARY  should  my  being  cheer, 
Hang  o'er  me  when  the  chord  of  life  is  riven, 

Be  my  dear  household  word,  and  my  last  accent  here. 


THAT   GENTLEMAN.* 


BY    EDWARD    EVERETT. 

AMONG  the  passengers  on  board  the  steamboat 
Chancellor  Livingston,  on  one  of  her  trips  up  the 
North  River,  last  year,  a  middle-aged  gentleman  was 
observed  by  the  captain,  whose  appearance  attracted 
notice,  but  whose  person  and  quality  were  unknown 
to  him.  The  stranger  was  dressed  in  the  best  made 
clothing,  of  the  latest  style,  but  without  being  in 
the  extreme  of  fashion,  or  conspicuous  for  any  thing 
that  he  did  or  did  not  wear.  He  had  not,  however, 
availed  himself  of  the  apology  of  travelling,  as 
many  do,  to  neglect  the  most  scrupulous  care  of 
his  person,  and  seemed  rather  to  be  on  a  visit,  than 
a  journey.  His  equipage  had  been  noticed  by  the 
porters  to  correspond  with  its  owner,  in  appearance. 
The  trunk  was  made  to  increase  or  diminish  in 
capacity,  the  upper  part  rising  on  the  under  by 
screws,  according  to  the  contents ;  the  whole  of  it 
was  besides  enveloped  in  a  firm  canvass.  A  cloak- 
bag  of  the  best  construction ;  a  writing  apparatus, 
with  a  most  inscrutable  lock ;  an  umbrella  in  a  neat 

*  First  published  in  1825. 


THAT    GENTLEMAN.  155 

case,  a  hat  in  another,  ready  to  take  the  place  of 
the  travelling  seal-skin  cap,  which  the  stranger 
wore  during  the  trip,  were  so  many  indications  of 
a  man,  who  placed  the  happiness  of  life  in  the  en 
joyment  of  its  comforts.  The  greatest  of  all  com 
forts  is  yet  to  be  told,  and  was  in  attendance  upon 
him,  in  the  shape  of  a  first-rate  servant,  a  yellow 
man  by  complexion,  taciturn,  active,  gentle ;  just 
not  too  obsequious,  and  just  not  too  familiar  ;  not 
above  the  name  of  servant,  and  well  deserving  that 
of  friend. 

This  strange  gentleman  was  quiet,  moderate  in 
his  movements,  somewhat  reserved  in  his  manners  ; 
all  real  gentlemen  are  so.  A  shade  of  melancholy 
settled  over  his  face,  but  rather  lightening  into 
satisfaction,  than  dark  and  ominous  of  growing 
sorrow.  It  was  a  countenance,  which  care  had 
furrowed,  but  in  which  the  springing  seeds  of  grief 
were  not  yet  planted.  There  was  a  timid  look  of 
one,  that  had  been  deceived  by  appearances,  and 
feared  to  trust  himself  to  an  exterior,  that  might 
betray  his  heart  into  a  misplaced  confidence.  There 
was  an  expression,  which  one  might  almost  call 
sly,  of  a  man,  who  had  at  length  found  a  secret 
treasure,  which  he  would  not  expose,  lest  it  should 
be  torn  from  him,  or  he  should  be  disturbed  in  its 
enjoyment.  Of  the  beauties  of  the  scene,  though 
plainly  a  man  of  cultivated  mind,  he  took  little 
notice.  He  cast  an  eye  of  equal  indifference  on 
nature's  Cyclopean  masonry  at  the  Palisades,  and 
on  the  elegant  erections  of  art,  on  the  opposite  side 


156  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

of  the  river.      Even  the  noble  entrance   into  the 
Highlands  scarcely  fixed  his  attention. 

With  all  the  appearance  of  a  perfect  gentleman, 
there  was  nevertheless  conspicuous  about  this  per 
sonage,  a  punctuality  in  obeying  the  bell,  which 
summoned  to  the  meals,  and  a  satisfaction  evinced 
while  at  them,  which  evidently  proceeded  from 
some  particular  association  of  ideas,  to  which  the 
spectator  wanted  the  key.  It  was  not  ravening 
appetite  ;  it  was  not  for  want  of  being  accustomed 
at  home  to  what  are  commonly,  and  we  think 
correctly,  called  "good  things;"  his  whole  appear 
ance  negatived  such  an  idea.  But  he  repaired  to 
the  table  with  a  cheerful  and  active  step,  as  if  he 
were  sure  he  should  find  things  as  they  ought  to 
be ;  and  he  partook  of  its  provisions  as  if  he  had 
found  them  so.  He  did  not  praise  the  abundance 
and  good  quality  of  what  he  saw  and  enjoyed ;  but 
maintained  the  same  rather  mysterious  silence  here, 
as  elsewhere  on  board.  But  the  expression  of  calm 
inward  satisfaction,  which  reigned  in  his  face, 
spoke  volumes.  In  like  manner,  with  respect  to 
every  part  of  the  domestic  economy  of  the  boat ; 
the  commodious  berths,  the  conveniences  of  the 
washing  apparatus,  and  of  the  barber's  shop;  the 
boot-brushing  quarters,  in  short,  all  the  nameless 
accommodations  and  necessaries,  which  will  suggest 
themselves  without  being  specified.  In  regard  to 
them  all,  you  might  read  in  the  stranger's  looks  and 
mien,  that  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  ;  and  for  some 
reason,  which  did  not  suggest  itself  for  want  of 


THAT    GENTLEMAN.  157 

knowledge  of  his  history,  he  evidently  enjoyed 
this  satisfaction,  with  a  peculiar  relish.  In  fact, 
the  only  words,  that  had  been  heard  to  escape  from 
"  that  gentleman,"  for  so  the  captain  had  called 
him,  in  pointing  him  out  to  the  steward  ;  and  so 
the  barber  had  called  him  in  speaking  of  him  to  the 
cook  ;  and  so  the  engineer  had  designated  him,  in 
describing  his  looks  to  the  fireman  ;  the  only  words 
which  "  that  gentleman  "  had  been  heard  to  utter 
to  any  one  on  board,  were  his  remarks  to  the 
captain,  after  having  finished  a  tour  of  observation 
round  the  boat,  —  "  Yery  convenient,  very  com 
fortable." 

As  they  drew  near  to  Albany,  this  air  of  satis 
faction  was  evidently  clouded.  Nothing  adverse 
had  happened  on  board  the  boat,  which  was  walking 
cheerily  through  the  water,  at  the  rate  of  eleven 
miles  and  a  half  per  hour.  Mr.  Surevalve,  her  engi 
neer,  was  heard  to  say  that  he  could  double  her 
steam  without  coming  near  her  proof;  "but  then," 
he  added  to  the  fireman,  "what  good  would  that  do, 
seeing  the  resistance  of  the  water  increases,  with 
the  velocity  of  the  boat ;  "  a  remark,  to  which  the 
fireman  returned,  what  may  be  called,  a  very  un 
knowing  look.  The  weather  was  fine  ;  the  com 
pany  generally  exhilarated  with  arriving  at  the 
journey's  end ;  and  all  but  the  stranger  rising  in 
spirits,  as  they  drew  near  to  the  landing  place.  He, 
on  the  contrary,  proceeded  about  the  business  of 
disembarking,  with  the  only  discontented  look  he 
had  worn  during  the  trip. 
14 


158  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

But  in  the  crowd  and  hurry  of  landing  two 
hundred  and  fifty  passengers,  with  as  many  trunks, 
carpet-bags,  and  bandboxes,  and  the  tumult  of  con 
flicting  porters,  draymen,  hackmen,  and  greeting 
friends,  the  stranger  was  lost  sight  of.  Several  of 
the  passengers  had  secretly  determined  to  keep  an 
eye  upon  him ;  an  idea  having  got  abroad  that  he 
was  a  member  of  parliament,  or  some  said  the  Duke 
of  Saxe  Weimar,  which  the  engineer  averred  with 
an  oath  to  be  the  case,  adding  that  "  it  was  hard, 
if  he  could  not  tell  a  Frenchman."  It  so  happened 
that  every  man  on  board  had  an  object  of  greater 
interest  to  look  after  in  the  crowd,  viz.  himself; 
and  which  course  the  stranger  took  on  landing,  no 
one  could  say. 

It  was  not  long,  before  the  captain  discovered 
that  the  stranger  had  not  gone  on  shore,  for  he  per 
ceived  him  occupying  a  retired  seat  on  the  transom, 
aft  in  the  cabin  ;  and  that  he  appeared  to  intend 
returning  to  New  York  the  next  trip.  His  counte 
nance  had  recovered  its  prevailing  expression,  and 
he  just  opened  his  lips  to  say  that  he  "  believed  he 
should  take  the  boat  back."  Various  speculations, 
no  doubt,  were  made  by  the  captain,  the  steward, 
the  engineer,  and  the  fireman,  on  a  circumstance, 
upon  the  whole,  so  singular :  but  recollecting  his 
clouded  aspect,  as  he  approached  Albany,  they 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  forgotten  some 
thing  of  importance  in  New  York ;  that  the  recol 
lection  of  it  did  not  return  to  him,  till  near  the 
arrival  of  the  boat,  and  consequently  he  was  obliged 


THAT    GENTLEMAN,  159 

to  go  down  the  river  again.  "  You  see  that  gen 
tleman  again,"  says  the  engineer  to  the  fireman. 
"I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Manyscald.  "  I  suppose  he  has 
forgotten  something  in  New  York,"  pursued  the 
engineer ;  and  thus  closed  a  dialogue,  which  a  skil 
ful  novelist  would  have  spun  out  into  three  pages. 

The  stranger's  demeanor,  on  the  return,  was  the 
exact  counterpart  of  that,  which  he  had  worn  on 
the  ascent ;  calm,  satisfied,  retired ;  perfectly  at 
ease  ;  a  mind  and  senses,  formed  to  enjoy,  reposing 
in  the  full  possession  of  their  objects.  To  describe 
his  manner  more  minutely,  would  be  merely  to  re 
peat  what  we  have  already  said,  in  the  former  part 
of  this  account.  But  the  hypothesis,  by  which  the 
engineer  and  fireman  had  accounted  for  his  return, 
and  his  melancholy  looks,  at  Albany,  was  over 
thrown  by  the  extraordinary  fact,  that  as  they  drew 
near  to  New  York,  his  countenance  was  overshad 
owed  by  the  same  clouds  that  had  before  darkened 
it.  He  was  even  more  perplexed  in  spirit,  than  he 
had  before  seemed  j  arid  he  ordered  his  servant  to 
look  to  the  baggage,  with  a  pettishness  that  con 
trasted  strangely  with  his  calm  deportment.  The 
engineer  who  had  noticed  this,  was  determined  to 
watch  him  closely  ;  and  the  fireman  swore  he 
would  follow  him  up  to  the  head  of  Cortlandt 
street.  But  just  as  the  steamboat  was  rounding 
into  the  slip,  a  sloop  was  descending  the  river  with 
wind  and  tide  ;  and  some  danger  of  collision  arose. 
It  was  necessary  that  the  engineer  should  throw  his' 
wheels  back,  with  all  possible  expedition.  This 


160  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

event  threw  the  fire-room  into  a  little  confusion, 
succeeded  by  some  remarks  of  admiration,  at  the 
precision  with  which  the  engine  worked,  and  the 
boast  of  the  fireman,  "  how  sweetly  she  went  over 
her  centres."  This  bustle  below  was  followed  by 
that  of  arriving ;  the  usual  throng  of  friends,  por 
ters,  passengers,  draymen,  hackmen,  and  barrow- 
men  breasting  each  other  on  the  deck,  on  the  plank 
which  led  from  the  boat,  on  the  slip,  and  in  the 
street,  completed  the  momentary  confusion  ;  and 
when  the  engineer  and  fireman  had  readjusted  their 
apartment,  they  burst  out  at  once  on  each  other, 
with  the  question  and  reply,  "  Did  you  see  which 
way  that  gentleman  went?  "  " Hang  it,  no."  The 
captain  and  the  steward  were  much  in  the  same 
predicament.  "  I  meant  to  have  had  an  eye  after 
'  that  gentleman,'  "  said  the  captain,  "but  he  has 
given  me  the  slip." 

It  was,  accordingly,  with  a  good  deal  of  surprise, 
that,  on  descending  to  the  cabin,  he  again  saw  the 
stranger,  in  the  old  place ;  again  prepared  to  all 
appearance  to  go  back  to  Albany,  and  again  heard 
the  short  remark,  "  I  believe,  I  shall  take  the  boat 
back."  But  the  captain  was  well-bred,  and  the 
stranger  a  good  customer ;  so  that  no  look  escaped 
the  former,  expressive  of  the  sentiments  which  this 
singular  conduct  excited  in  him.  The  same  deco 
rum,  however,  did  not  restrain  the  engineer  and 
fireman.  As  soon  as  they  perceived  the  stranger, 
on  his  accustomed  walk  up  and  down  deck,  the 
engineer  cried  out,  with  a  preliminary  obtestation 


THAT    GENTLEMAN.  161 

which  we  do  not  care  to  repeat,  "  Mr.  Manyscald, 
do  you  see  i  that  gentleman  ? '  "  "Ay,  ay,"  was  the 
answer,  "  who  can  he  be  ? "  "  Tell  that  if  you  can," 
rejoined  the  engineer,  "  it  ain't  every  man  that 's 
willing  to  be  known  ;  for  my  own  part,  I  believe 
it 's  Bolivar  come  to  tap  the  dam  over  the  Mohawk, 
and  let  the  kanol  waste  out."  The  fireman  mod 
estly  inquired  his  reason  for  thinking  it  was  Bolivar, 
but  the  engineer,  a  little  piqued  at  having  his  judg 
ment  questioned,  merely  muttered,  that  "  it  was 
hard,  if  he  couldn't  tell  a  Frenchman." 

During  the  passage,  nothing  escaped  the  stran 
ger  that  betrayed  his  history  or  errand  ;  nor  yet 
was  there  any  affectation  of  mystery  or  conceal 
ment.  A  close  observer  would  have  inferred  (as  is 
said  to  be  the  case  with  free  masonry),  that  no 
secret  escaped  him,  because  there  was  none  to  es 
cape  ;  that  his  conduct,  though  not  to  be  accounted 
for  by  those  unacquainted  with  him,  was  probably 
consistent  with  the  laws  of  human  nature,  and  the 
principles  of  a  gentleman.  It  is  precisely,  however, 
a  case  like  this,  which  most  stimulates  the  curiosity 
and  awakens  the  suspicions  of  common  men.  They 
think  the  natural  unaffected  air  but  a  deeper  dis 
guise  j  and  it  cannot  be  concealed,  that,  in  the 
course  of  the  third  passage,  very  hard  allusions 
were  made  by  the  engineer  and  fireman  to  the 
character  of  Major  Andre,  as  a  spy.  The  sight  of 
West  Point,  probably  awakened  this  reminiscence 
in  the  mind  of  the  engineer,  who,  in  the  ardor  of 
his  patriotic  feeling,  forgot  it  was  time  of  peace. 
H* 


162  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

The  fireman  was  beginning  to  throw  out  a  submis 
sive  hint,  that  he  did  not  know,  "  that  in  time  of 
peace,  even  an  Englishman  could  be  hung  for  going 
to  West  Point ;  "  but  the  engineer  interrupted  him, 
and  expressed  his  belief,  with  an  oath, .  that  "  if 
General  Jackson  could  catch  'that  gentleman,'  "  (as 
he  now  called  him  with  a  little  sneer  on  the  word,) 
"he  would  hang  him,  under  the  second  article  of 
the  rules  of  war."  "  For  all  me,"  meekly  re 
sponded  the  fireman,  as  he  shouldered  a  stick  of 
pitch-pine  into  the  furnace. 

It  is  remarked  by  authors,  who  have  spoken  on 
the  subject  of  juggling,  that  the  very  intensity  with 
which  an  audience  eyes  the  juggler,  facilitates  his 
deceptions.  He  has  but  to  give  their  eyes  and  their 
thoughts  a  slight  misdirection,  and  then  he  may, 
for  a  moment,  do  almost  any  thing  unobserved,  in 
full  view.  A  vague  impression,  growing  out  of  the 
loose  conversation  in  the  fire-room,  had  prevailed 
among  the  attendants  and  others  in  the  boat,  that 
the  gentleman  was  a  foreigner,  going  to  explore,  if 
not  to  tap,  the  canal.  With  this  view,  they  felt  no 
doubt,  he  would  land  at  Albany ;  a  lookout  was 
kept  for  him,  and  though  he  was  unnoticed  in  the 
throng  at  the  place  of  debarkation,  it  was  ascribed 
to  the  throng  that  the  gentleman  was  unnoticed.  "  I 
tell  you,  you'll  hear  mischief  from  '  that  gentleman 
yet,'  "  said  the  engineer,  throwing  off  his  steam. 

What  then  was  their  astonishment,  and  even  that 
of  the  captain  and  steward,  to  find  the  stranger  was 
still  in  the  cabin,  and  prepared  to  all  appearance  again 


THAT    GENTLEMAN.  163 

to  go  back  to  New  York.  The  captain  felt  he  hardly 
knew  how  ;  we  may  call  it  queer.  He  stifled,  how 
ever,  his  uneasy  emotions,  and  endeavored  to  bow 
respectfully  to  the  stranger's  usual  remark,  "  I  think 
I  shall  take  the  boat  back."  Aware  of  the  busy 
speculation,  which  had  begun  to  express  itself  in 
the  fire-room,  he  requested  the  steward  not  to  let  it 
be  known,  that  "  that  gentleman  "  was  going  down 
again ;  and  it  remained  a  secret  till  the  boat  was 
under  way.  About  half  an  hour  after  it  had  started, 
the  gentleman  left  the  cabin  to  take  one  of  his 
walks  on  deck,  and  in  passing  along,  was  seen  at 
the  same  instant  by  the  engineer  and  fireman.  For 
a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  with  an 
expression  of  displeasure  and  resolution  strongly 
mingled.  Not  a  word  was  said  by  either  ;  but  the 
fireman  dropped  a  huge  stick  of  pine,  which  he  was 
shouldering  into  the  furnace  ;  and  the  engineer  as 
promptly  cut  off  the  steam  from  the  engine,  and 
brought  the  wheels  to  a  stand.  The  captain  of 
course  rushed  forward,  and  inquired  if  the  boiler 
had  collapsed,  (the  modern  polite  word  for  burst- 
ing",)  and  met  the  desperate  engineer  coming  up  to 
speak  for  himself.  "  Captain,"  said  he,  with  a  kind 
of  high-pressure  movement  of  his  arm,  "  I  have 
kept  up  steam,  ever  since  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
steam  on  the  river.  Copper  boiler,  or  iron,  high 
pressure  or  low ;  give  me  the  packing  of  my  own 
cylinder,  and  I  '11  knock  under  to  no  man.  But  if 
we  are  to  have  '  that  gentleman '  up  and  down, 
down  and  up,  and  up  and  down  again,  like  a  sixty 


164  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

horse  piston,  I  know  one,  that  won't  raise  another 
inch  of  steam,  if  he  starves  for  it." 

The  unconscious  subject  of  this  tumult  had 
already  retreated  to  his  post  in  the  cabin,  before 
the  scene  began,  and  was  luckily  ignorant  of  the 
trouble  he  was  causing.  The  captain,  who  was  a 
prudent  man,  spoke  in  a  conciliating  tone  to  the 
engineer  ;  promised  to  ask  the  stranger  roundly, 
who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  business,  and  if  he 
found  the  least  cause  of  dissatisfaction,  to  set  him 
on  shore  at  Newburgh.  The  mollified  engineer 
returned  to  his  department  •  the  fireman  shouldered 
a  huge  stick  of  pine  into  the  furnace,  the  steam 
rushed  into  the  cylinder,  and  the  boat  was  soon 
moving  her  twelve  knots  an  hour  on  the  river. 

The  captain,  in  the  extremity  of  the  moment, 
had  promised  what  it  was  hard  to  perform  j  and 
now  experienced  a  sensible  palpitation,  as  he  drew 
near  to  the  stranger,  to  acquit  the  obligation  he  had 
hastily  assumed.  The  gentleman,  however,  had 
begun  to  surmise  the  true  state  of  the  case  ;  he  had 
noticed  the  distrustful  looks  of  the  crew,  and  the 
dubious  expression  of  the  captain  and  steward.  As 
the  former  approached  him,  he  determined  to  relieve 
the  embarrassment,  under  which,  it  was  plain,  he 
was  going  to  address  him  ;  and  said,  "  I  perceive, 
sir,  you  are  at  a  loss  to  account  for  my  remaining 
on  board  the  boat,  for  so  many  successive  trips, 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  your  people  view  me  with 
suspicious  eyes.  The  truth  is,  captain,  I  believe  I 
shall  pass  the  summer  with  you." 


THAT    GENTLEMAN.  165 

The  stranger  paused  to  notice  (somewhat  wick 
edly)  the  effect  of  this  intelligence  on  the  captain, 
whose  eyes  began  to  grow  round  at  the  intimation ; 
but  in  a  moment  pursued :  —  "  You  must  know, 
captain,  I  am  one  of  those  persons,  — favored  I  will 
not  say,  —  who  being  above  the  necessity  of  labor 
ing  for  a  subsistence,  are  obliged  to  resort  to  some 
extraordinary  means  to  get  through  the  year.  I  am 
a  Carolinian,  and  pass  my  summers  in  travelling. 
I  have  been  obliged  to  come  by  land,  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  friends,  and  transacting  business  by  the 
way.  Did  you  ever,  captain,  travel  by  land  from 
Charleston  to  Philadelphia  ?  " 

The  captain  shook  his  head  in  the  negative. 
"  You  may  thank  Heaven  for  that.  O !  captain, 
the  crazy  stages,  the  vile  roads,  the  rivers  to  be 
forded,  sands  to  be  ploughed  through,  the  comfort 
less  inns,  the  crowd,  the  noise,  the  heat  ;  but  I 
must  not  dwell  on  it.  Suffice  it  to  say,  I  have 
suffered  every  thing,  both  moving  and  stationary. 
I  have  been  overturned,  and  had  my  shoulder  dis 
located  in  Virginia ;  I  have  been  robbed  between 
Baltimore  and  Havre  de  Grace.  At  Philadelphia,  I 
have  had  my  place  in  the  mail  coach  taken  up  by 
a  way  passenger ;  I  have  been  stowed  by  the  side 
of  a  drunken  sailor  in  New  Jersey ;  I  have  been 
beguiled  into  a  fashionable  boarding  house,  in  the 
crowded  season,  in  New  York.  Once  I  have  had 
to  sit  on  a  bag  of  turkeys,  which  was  going  to  the 
stage  proprietor,  who  was  also  keeper  of  a  hotel  ; 
three  rheumatic  fevers  have  I  caught,  by  riding  in 


166  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  night,  against  a  window  that  would  not  close  : 
near  Elkton,  I  was  washed  away  in  a  gully,  and 
three  horses  drowned  ;  at  Saratoga,  I  have  been 
suffocated  j  at  Montreal,  eaten  of  fleas  ;  in  short, 
captain,  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  I  have  suffered  the 
pains  of  purgatory.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I 
have  met  with  comfort,  ease,  and  enjoyment,  on 
board  the  Chancellor.  I  was  following  the  multitude 
to  the  Springs.  As  I  drew  near  to  Albany,  my  heart 
sunk  within  me,  as  I  thought  of  the  little  prison,  in 
which  I  should  be  shut  up,  at  one  of  the  fashion 
able  hotels.  In  the  very  moment  of  landing,  my 
courage  failed  me,  and  I  returned  to  the  comforts 
of  another  trip,  in  your  excellent  boat.  We  went 
down  to  New  York ;  I  was  about  to  step  on  shore, 
and  saw  a  well-dressed  gentleman  run  down  by  a 
swine,  in  my  sight.  I  shrunk  back  again  into  your 
cabin,  where  I  have  found  such  accommodations, 
as  I  have  never  before  met,  away  from  home  ;  and 
if  you  are  not  unwilling  to  have  a  season  passen 
ger,  I  intend  to  pass  the  ensuing  three  months  on 
board  your  boat." 

The  captain  bowed ;  gratified,  and  ashamed  of 
his  suspicions.  He  hurried  up  to  put  the  engineer 
at  ease,  who  was  not  less  gratified  at  the  high 
opinion  the  stranger  had  of  the  Chancellor ;  and  as 
long  as  the  boat  continued  to  ply  for  the  rest  of  the 
season,  was  used  to  remark,  at  least  once  a  trip 
to  the  fireman,  uithat  gentleman'  knows  what's 
what." 


ON   THE   DEPARTURE   OF   AN   ATLANTIC 
STEAMER. 


BY    JAMES    F.    COLMAN. 

WITH  what  unconsciously  majestic  grace, 
Like  a  leviathan  half  roused  from  sleep, 

Thou  movest  from  thy  land-locked  trysting-place, 
To  cleave  thy  way  across  the  convex  deep  ; 

While  Ocean  shouts  to  thee  his  welcome  wild, 

And  clasps  thee  in  fierce  joy,  —  his  fearless  child ! 

Thy  mighty  pulses  play,  —  thy  soul  of  fire 

Paints  its  black  breathings  on  the  cold,  blue  sky, 

And,  scoffing  at  the  billows'  puny  ire, — 

As  paws  the  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  cry,  — 

Thou  pantest  for  a  struggle  with  their  wrath, 

Trampling  thy  onward  course  along  their  path. 

Confided  wealth  to  thee  were  nothingness, — 
Bucephalus  weighed  not  his  rider's  gold, — 

But  couldst  thou  of  thy  nobler  freightage  guess, 
The  bruised  and  loving  soul  thine  arms  enfold, 

A  mother's  yearning  tenderness  thou  'dst  feel, 

Thou  iron-hearted  thing  with  ribs  of  steel ! 


168  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

That  sorrowing  soul !     How  many  a  fitful  phase 
Of  life  hath  read  its  teachings  to  her  eye, 

Since,  cradled  in  the  shade  of  Shakspeare's  bays, 
She  heard  the  Muses'  whispered  lullaby, 

Who  with  their  sister  Graces  did  combine, 

Their  flowers  in  Fate's  dark  web  to  intertwine ! 

How  many  a  heart  hath  hung  upon  her  words ! 

Wit,  Art,  and  Wisdom  at  her  shrine  have  knelt, 
And  on  the  trembling  soul's  awakened  chords 

The  varying  melodies  of  passion  felt ; 
For,  in  Love's  school  by  Truth  and  Beauty  taught, 
That  voice  embodied  all  the  charms  of  thought. 

All  lovely  fancies  of  the  poet's  brain, 

Which  from  Imagination's  rifled  hoards  he  stole, 

Sprang  from  the  page,  informed  with  life  again, 
To  claim  their  empire  o'er  the  loyal  soul ; 

And  Genius  led  that  visionary  band 

To  take  fresh  chaplets  from  his  darling's  hand. 

There  stood  sad  Constance,  —  for  her  murdered  boy 
Invoking  vengeance,  with  white,  outstretched  arms  ; 

And  sprightly  Beatrice,  so  proudly  coy, 
Yet  melted  at  the  mischief  of  her  charms  ; 

With  Henry's  wronged,  repudiated  mate, 

Most  queenlike  still  in  her  despised  estate. 

Gentle  Ophelia  came  with  willow  crown, 
Her  dark,  dishevelled  tresses  dripping  wet ; 

And  wilful  Kate,  who  wins  us  with  a  frown, 
Whose  temper  shall  be  tamed  to  sweetness  yet. 

There  was  Cordelia's  filial  love,  and  then 

The  tender  truthfulness  of  Imogen. 


DEPARTURE    OF    AN    ATLANTIC    STEAMER.  169 

Lo  !  through  Verona's  perfumed  orchard-shades, 

A  girlish  vision  forms  upon  the  sight, 
Which,  in  those  dim,  ancestral  colonnades, 

With  starlike  beauty  makes  the  darkness  bright, 
And  kneels  to  her  by  Fate  foredoomed  to  know 
All  depths  of  guiltless  tenderness  and  woe. 

Time  gives  and  takes,  —  wayward  alike  in  all ; 

He  bears  two  goblets  in  his  trembling  hands, 
And  where  from  one  bright  drops  of  nectar  fall, 

Verdure  and  blossoms  clothe  life's  barren  sands ; 
And  the  old  graybeard  looketh  back  to  smile, 
As  if  amid  those  bowers  he'd  pause  awhile. 

And  moments  come,  when  quivering  lips  must  drain 

That  other  goblet's  bitter  contents  dry, 
One  draught,  for  years  of  concentrated  pain,  — 

While  his  broad  pinions  stain  the  azure  sky, 
And  their  black  shadows  on  the  dewless  sod 
Hide  from  our  haggard  eyes  the  face  of  God. 

It  is  that  hour  for  her ;  —  upon  the  bleak, 
Cold  deck  she  stands,  a  monument  of  woe, 

While  on  her  speaking  brow  and  bloodless  cheek 

Thought's  struggling  forms  their  giant  outlines  throw ; 

As  when,  depicted  on  a  marble  wall, 

Some  hidden  wrestlers'  writhing  shadows  fall. 

Soothe  thou  thy  savageness,  thou  surly  sea  ! 

And,  as  upon  a  mother's  throbbing  breast, 
With  lion-hearted  magnanimity, 

Rock  her  to  slumber,  —  she  hath  need  of  rest. 
Chain  the  fierce  tempest  many  a  fathom  deep, 
Down  at  earth's  core,  where  his  pale  victims  sleep. 
15 


170  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

That  vision  fades  upon  the  straining  view ; 

Bear  her  on  gently,  O  thou  gallant  bark  ! 
And  may  the  dolphins'  rainbow-tints  imbue, 

Like  emblemed  Hope,  the  billows  cold  and  dark ; 
Till,  to  thy  port  by  inward  impulse  driven, 
Thy  rest  shall  symbolize  the  soul's  in  heaven. 


WASHINGTON   ALLSTON. 


BY    CHARLES    SUMNER. 

PROM  the  grave  of  the  Jurist,  at  Mount  Auburn, 
let  us  walk  to  that  of  THE  ARTIST,  who  sleeps 
beneath  the  protecting  arms  of  those  trees  which 
cast  their  shadow  into  this  church.  WASHINGTON 
ALLSTON  died  in  the  month  of  July,  1843,  aged 
sixty-three,  having  reached  the  grand  climacteric, 
that  special  mile-stone  on  the  road  of  life.  It  was 
Saturday  night ;  the  cares  of  the  week  were  over ; 
the  pencil  and  brush  were  laid  in  repose  ;  the  great 
canvass  on  which  for  many  years  he  had  sought  to 
perpetuate  the  image  of  Daniel  confronting  the 
idolatrous  soothsayers  of  Belshazzar,  was  left,  with 
the  chalk  lines  designating  the  labors  to  be  resumed 
after  the  rest  of  the  Sabbath ;  the  evening  was 
passed  in  the  pleasant  converse  of  family  and 
friends ;  words  of  benediction  had  fallen  from  his 
lips  upon  a  beloved  relative ;  all  had  retired  for  the 
night,  leaving  him  alone,  in  health,  to  receive 
serenely  the  visitation  of  Death,  sudden  but  not 
unprepared  for.  Happy  lot !  thus  to  be  borne 
away,  with  blessings  on  the  lips,  not  through  the 


172  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

long  valley  of  disease,  amidst  the  sharpness  of  pain, 
and  the  darkness  that  beclouds  the  slowly  departing 
spirit,  but  straight  upward  through  realms  of  light, 
swiftly,  yet  gently,  as  on  the  wings  of  a  dove  ! 

The  early  shades  of  evening  had  begun  to  prevail, 
before  the  body  of  the  Artist  reached  its  last  resting- 
place  ;  and  the  solemn  service  of  the  church  was 
read  in  the  open  air,  by  the  flickering  flame  of  a 
torch,  fit  image  of  life.  In  the  group  of  mourners, 
who  bore  by  their  presence  a  last  tribute  to  what 
was  mortal  in  him  of  whom  so  much  was  immortal, 
stood  the  great  Jurist.  His  soul,  overflowing  with 
tenderness  and  appreciation  of  merit  of  all  kinds, 
was  touched  by  the  scene.  In  vivid  words,  as  he 
slowly  left  the  church-yard,  he  poured  forth  his 
admiration  and  his  grief.  Never  was  such  an  Artist 
mourned  by  such  a  Jurist. 

Of  Allston  may  we  repeat  the  words  in  which 
Burke  has  commemorated  his  friend  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  when  he  says,  —  "  He  was  the  first  who 
added  the  praise  of  the  elegant  arts  to  the  other 
glories  of  his  country."*  An  ingenious  English 
writer,  who  sees  Art  at  once  with  the  eye  of  taste 
and  humanity,  has  said,  in  a  recent  publication  on 
our  Artist :  —  "It  seemed  to  me,  that  in  him  Amer 
ica  had  lost  her  third  great  man.  What  Washington 
was  as  a  statesman,  Channning  as  a  moralist,  that 
was  Allston  as  an  Artist." 


*  Prior's  Life  of  Burke,  Vol.  II.,  pp.  189,  190. 
•f  Mrs.  Jameson's  Memoirs  and  Essays. 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  173 

And  here  again  we  discern  the  inseparable  link 
between  character  and  works.  Allston  was  a  good 
man,  with  a  soul  refined  by  purity,  exalted  by 
religion,  softened  by  love.  In  manner,  he  was  sim 
ple,  yet  courtly  ;  quiet,  though  anxious  to  please  ; 
kindly  alike  to  all,  the  poor  and  lowly,  riot  less 
than  to  the  rich  and  great ;  a  modest,  unpretending, 
Christian  gentleman.  As  he  spoke,  in  that  voice  of 
softest  utterance,  all  were  charmed  to  listen,  and  the 
airy-footed  hours  often  tripped  on  far  towards  the 
gates  of  morning,  before  his  friends  could  break 
from  his  spell.  His  character  is  transfigured  in  his 
works ;  and  the  Artist  is  always  inspired  by  the 
man. 

His  life  was  consecrated  to  Art.  He  lived  to 
diffuse  beauty,  as  a  writer,  as  a  poet,  as  a  painter. 
As  an  expounder  of  the  principles  of  his  art,  he  will 
take  a  place  with  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Albert  Durer, 
Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Fuseli.  His  theory  of  paint 
ing,  as  developed  in  his  still  unpublished  discourses, 
and  in  that  tale  of  rare  beauty,  "  Monaldi,"  is  an 
instructive  memorial  of  his  conscientious  studies. 
In  the  small  group  of  painter-poets,  —  poets  by  the 
double  title  of  the  pencil  and  the  pen,  —  he  holds  an 
honored  place.  He  was  pronounced,  by  no  less  a 
judge  than  Southey,  to  be  one  of  the  first  poets  of 
the  age.  His  Ode  on  England  and  America,  one  of 
the  choicest  lyrics  in  the  language,  is  immeasurably 
superior  to  the  satirical  verse  of  Salvator  Rosa,  and 
may  claim  companionship  with  the  remarkable 
sonnets  of  Michael  Angelo. 
14* 


174  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

In  his  youth,  while  yet  a  pupil  of  the  University, 
his  busy  fingers  found  pleasure  in  drawing  ;  and 
there  is  still  preserved,  in  the  records  of  one  of  our 
societies,  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  from  his  hand. 
Shortly  after  leaving  Cambridge,  he  repaired  to 
Europe,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  art.  At  Paris  were 
then  collected  the  great  masterpieces  of  painting  and 
sculpture,  the  spoils  of  unholy  war,  robbed  from 
their  native  galleries  and  churches,  to  swell  the 
pomp  of  the  imperial  capital.  There  our  Artist 
devoted  his  days  to  the  diligent  study  of  his  chosen 
profession,  particularly  the  department  of  drawing, 
so  important  to  accurate  art.  Alluding  to  these 
thorough  labors  at  a  later  day,  he  said,  "  he  worked 
like  a  mechanic."  Perhaps  to  these  maybe  referred 
his  singular  excellence  in  that  necessary,  but  ne 
glected  branch,  which  is  to  art  what  grammar  is  to 
language.  Grammar  and  design  are  treated  by 
Aristotle  as  on  a  level. 

Turning  his  back  upon  Paris,  and  the  greatness 
of  the  Empire,  he  directed  his  steps  to  Italy,  the 
enchanted  ground  of  literature,  of  history,  and  of 
art,  — strown  with  richest  memorials  of  the  past,  — 
touching  from  scenes  memorable  in  the  story  of  the 
progress  of  man,  —  teaching  by  the  pages  of  phi 
losophers  and  historians,  —  vocal  with  the  melody 
of  poets,  — ringing  with  the  music  which  St.  Ceci 
lia  protects,  —  glowing  with  the  living  marble  and 
canvass,  —  beneath  a  sky  of  heavenly  purity  and 
brightness,  —  with  the  sunsets  which  Claude  has 
painted,  —  parted  by  the  Apennines,  early  witnesses 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  175 

of  the  unrecorded  Etruscan  civilization,  —  sur 
rounded  by  the  snow-capped  Alps  and  the  blue, 
classic  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  The 
deluge  of  war,  which  submerged  Europe,  had  here 
subsided  ;  and  our  Artist  took  up  his  peaceful  abode 
in  Rome,  the  modern  home  of  art.  Strange  change 
of  condition !  Rome,  sole  surviving  city  of  antiq 
uity,  who  once  disdained  all  that  could  be  wrought 
by  the  cunning  hand  of  sculpture,  — 

"  Excudent  alii  spirantia  mollius  aera, 
Credo  equidem  :  vivos  ducent  de  marmore  vultus,"  — 

who  has  commanded  the  world  by  her  arms,  by  her 
jurisprudence,  by  her  church,  now  sways  it  further 
by  her  arts.  Pilgrims  from  afar,  where  neither  her 
eagles,  her  praetors,  nor  her  interdicts  ever  reached, 
become  the  willing  subjects  of  this  new  empire ; 
and  the  Vatican,  stored  with  the  precious  remains 
of  antiquity,  and  the  touching  creations  of  a 
Christian  pencil,  has  succeeded  to  the  Vatican 
whose  thunders  intermingled  with  the  strifes  of 
modern  Europe. 

At  Rome  he  was  happy  in  the  friendship  of  Cole 
ridge,  and  in  long  walks  in  his  instructive  company. 
We  can  well  imagine  that  the  author  of  Genevieve 
and  The  Ancient  Mariner  would  find  especial  sym 
pathies  with  Allston.  We  behold  these  two  natures, 
tremblingly  alive  to  beauty  of  all  kinds,  looking 
together  upon  those  majestic  ruins,  upon  the  mani 
fold  accumulations  of  art,  upon  the  marble,  which 
almost  spoke,  and  upon  the  warmer  canvass,  — 


172  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

long  valley  of  disease,  amidst  the  sharpness  of  pain, 
and  the  darkness  that  beclouds  the  slowly  departing 
spirit,  but  straight  upward  through  realms  of  light, 
swiftly,  yet  gently,  as  on  the  wings  of  a  dove  ! 

The  early  shades  of  evening  had  begun  to  prevail, 
before  the  body  of  the  Artist  reached  its  last  resting- 
place  ;  and  the  solemn  service  of  the  church  was 
read  in  the  open  air,  by  the  flickering  flame  of  a 
torch,  fit  image  of  life.  In  the  group  of  mourners, 
who  bore  by  their  presence  a  last  tribute  to  what 
was  mortal  in  him  of  whom  so  much  was  immortal, 
stood  the  great  Jurist.  His  soul,  overflowing  with 
tenderness  and  appreciation  of  merit  of  all  kinds, 
was  touched  by  the  scene.  In  vivid  words,  as  he 
slowly  left  the  church-yard,  he  poured  forth  his 
admiration  and  his  grief.  Never  was  such  an  Artist 
mourned  by  such  a  Jurist. 

Of  Allston  may  we  repeat  the  words  in  which 
Burke  has  commemorated  his  friend  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  when  he  says,  —  "  He  was  the  first  who 
added  the  praise  of  the  elegant  arts  to  the  other 
glories  of  his  country."*  An  ingenious  English 
writer,  who  sees  Art  at  once  with  the  eye  of  taste 
and  humanity,  has  said,  in  a  recent  publication  on 
our  Artist :  —  "It  seemed  to  me,  that  in  him  Amer 
ica  had  lost  her  third  great  man.  What  Washington 
was  as  a  statesman,  Channning  as  a  moralist,  that 
was  Allston  as  an  Artist."  f 


*  Prior's  Life  of  Burke,  Vol.  II.,  pp.  189,  190. 
f  Mrs.  Jameson's  Memoirs  and  Essays. 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  173 

And  here  again  we  discern  the  inseparable  link 
between  character  and  works.  Allston  was  a  good 
man,  with  a  soul  refined  by  purity,  exalted  by 
religion,  softened  by  love.  In  manner,  he  was  sim 
ple,  yet  courtly  ;  quiet,  though  anxious  to  please  ; 
kindly  alike  to  all,  the  poor  and  lowly,  riot  less 
than  to  the  rich  and  great ;  a  modest,  unpretending, 
Christian  gentleman.  As  he  spoke,  in  that  voice  of 
softest  utterance,  all  were  charmed  to  listen,  and  the 
airy-footed  hours  often  tripped  on  far  towards  the 
gates  of  morning,  before  his  friends  could  break 
from  his  spell.  His  character  is  transfigured  in  his 
works ;  and  the  Artist  is  always  inspired  by  the 
man. 

His  life  was  consecrated  to  Art.  He  lived  to 
diffuse  beauty,  as  a  writer,  as  a  poet,  as  a  painter. 
As  an  expounder  of  the  principles  of  his  art,  he  will 
take  a  place  with  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Albert  Durer, 
Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Puseli.  His  theory  of  paint 
ing,  as  developed  in  his  still  unpublished  discourses, 
and  in  that  tale  of  rare  beauty,  "  Monaldi,"  is  an 
instructive  memorial  of  his  conscientious  studies. 
In  the  small  group  of  painter-poets,  —  poets  by  the 
double  title  of  the  pencil  and  the  pen,  —  he  holds  an 
honored  place.  He  was  pronounced,  by  no  less  a 
judge  than  Southey,  to  be  one  of  the  first  poets  of 
the  age.  His  Ode  on  England  and  America,  one  of 
the  choicest  lyrics  in  the  language,  is  immeasurably 
superior  to  the  satirical  verse  of  Salvator  Rosa,  and 
may  claim  companionship  with  the  remarkable 
sonnets  of  Michael  Angelo. 
14* 


174  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

In  his  youth,  while  yet  a  pupil  of  the  University, 
his  busy  fingers  found  pleasure  in  drawing  ;  and 
there  is  still  preserved,  in  the  records  of  one  of  our 
societies,  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  from  his  hand. 
Shortly  after  leaving  Cambridge,  he  repaired  to 
Europe,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  art.  At  Paris  were 
then  collected  the  great  masterpieces  of  painting  and 
sculpture,  the  spoils  of  unholy  war,  robbed  from 
their  native  galleries  and  churches,  to  swell  the 
pomp  of  the  imperial  capital.  There  our  Artist 
devoted  his  days  to  the  diligent  study  of  his  chosen 
profession,  particularly  the  department  of  drawing, 
so  important  to  accurate  art.  Alluding  to  these 
thorough  labors  at  a  later  day,  he  said,  "  he  worked 
like  a  mechanic."  Perhaps  to  these  maybe  referred 
his  singular  excellence  in  that  necessary,  but  ne 
glected  branch,  which  is  to  art  what  grammar  is  to 
language.  Grammar  and  design  are  treated  by 
Aristotle  as  on  a  level. 

Turning  his  back  upon  Paris,  and  the  greatness 
of  the  Empire,  he  directed  his  steps  to  Italy,  the 
enchanted  ground  of  literature,  of  history,  and  of 
art,  — strown  with  richest  memorials  of  the  past,  — 
touching  from  scenes  memorable  in  the  story  of  the 
progress  of  man,  —  teaching  by  the  pages  of  phi 
losophers  and  historians,  —  vocal  with  the  melody 
of  poets, — ringing  with  the  music  which  St.  Ceci 
lia  protects,  —  glowing  with  the  living  marble  and 
canvass, — -beneath  a  sky  of  heavenly  purity  and 
brightness,  —  with  the  sunsets  which  Claude  has 
painted,  —  parted  by  the  Apennines,  early  witnesses 


WASHINGTON    ALLSTON.  175 

of  the  unrecorded  Etruscan  civilization,  —  sur 
rounded  by  the  snow-capped  Alps  and  the  blue, 
classic  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.  The 
deluge  of  war,  which  submerged  Europe,  had  here 
subsided  ;  and  our  Artist  took  up  his  peaceful  abode 
in  Rome,  the  modern  home  of  art.  Strange  change 
of  condition !  Rome,  sole  surviving  city  of  antiq 
uity,  who  once  disdained  all  that  could  be  wrought 
by  the  cunning  hand  of  sculpture,  — 

"  Excudent  alii  spirantia  mollius  sera, 
Credo  equidem  :  vivos  ducent  de  marmore  vultus,"  — 

who  has  commanded  the  world  by  her  arms,  by  her 
jurisprudence,  by  her  church,  now  sways  it  further 
by  her  arts.  Pilgrims  from  afar,  where  neither  her 
eagles,  her  praetors,  nor  her  interdicts  ever  reached, 
become  the  willing  subjects  of  this  new  empire  • 
and  the  Vatican,  stored  with  the  precious  remains 
of  antiquity,  and  the  touching  creations  of  a 
Christian  pencil,  has  succeeded  to  the  Vatican 
whose  thunders  intermingled  with  the  strifes  of 
modern  Europe. 

At  Rome  he  was  happy  in  the  friendship  of  Cole 
ridge,  and  in  long  walks  in  his  instructive  company. 
We  can  well  imagine  that  the  author  of  Genevieve 
and  The  Ancient  Mariner  would  find  especial  sym 
pathies  with  Allston.  We  behold  these  two  natures, 
tremblingly  alive  to  beauty  of  all  kinds,  looking 
together  upon  those  majestic  ruins,  upon  the  mani 
fold  accumulations  of  art,  upon  the  marble,  which 
almost  spoke,  and  upon  the  warmer  canvass,  — 


GOODNESS  ALMIGHTY,  AND  ITS  MEMORIAL 
EVERLASTING. 


BY    F.    D.    HUNTINGTON. 


THE  force  with  which  a  man  lives,  depends  on 
the  amount  of  his  virtue,  and  the  depth  of  his 
faith ;  not  so  much  on  the  penetration  of  his  un 
derstanding  ;  far  less,  on  his  muscular  activity,  or 
his  worldly  enterprise,  or  the  persistency  of  his 
ambition ;  less  still,  on  any  favoritism  of  fortune. 
To  the  worth  of  a  life,  the  spirit  that  animates  it, 
and  the  splendor  that  attends  it,  are  respectively  re 
lated,  as  the  kingly  temper,  and  the  palace-tapestry, 
to  an  empire.  He  moves,  the  really  strong  man, 
among  his  fellows,  who  bears  in  his  bosom  a  quick 
conscience,  a  brave  heart,  a  resolute  will  for  duty, 
generous  affections  for  humanity,  and  a  filial  trust 
in  God.  And  without  these,  he  were  weak  and 
inefficient,  though  he  swung  the  right  arm  of 
Hercules  ;  ignorant  and  poor,  though  he  wielded 
Plato's  reason,  or  held  the  title  of  Plutus'  wealth ; 
shortlived  and  helpless,  though  he  wore  Methusa- 
leh's  multitude  of  days,  or  Cassar's  crown  upon  his 
forehead. 


GOODNESS    ALMIGHTY.  181 

Let  the  odds  be  never  so  greatly  on  the  side  of 
evil,  as  the  eye  judges,  yet  virtue,  slender  as  she 
seems,  carries  behind  her  shield  the  pledge  of  an 
immortal  victory.  As  the  seraph  Abdiel  cried,  look 
ing  on  the  apostate  in  his  "  sun-bright  chariot, 
armed  in  adamant  and  gold," — 

"  Strength  and  might 

There  fail  where  virtue  fails,  or  weakest  prove 
Where  boldest,  though  to  sight  unconquerable." 

This  truth  finds  support  in  the  history  of  good 
men  and  good  enterprises.  Silently,  but  effectu 
ally,  ever  since  the  world  began,  virtue,  a  joyous 
reaper,  has  been  gathering  its  affluent  harvest. 
The  field  of  its  toil  has  often  been  obscure  and 
dusty ;  but  still,  over  all  the  hills,  its  sickle  rings 
cheerily  against  the  waving  wheat.  Among  the 
superb  forms  of  civic  station  and  military  glory,  its 
stature  has  seemed  frail  j  yet  in  its  slender  figure 
has  dwelt  the  majesty  of  Right.  The  energy  of  a 
giant  has  clung  to  its  delicate  limbs..  Whoever  had 
estimated  its  rank  by  the  magnitude  of  its  preten 
sions,  had  sadly  misjudged  its  nature. 

Most  of  the  great  movements  of  reform  have, 
at  the  beginning,  seemed  insignificant.  But  by  a 
law  of  diffusion,  certain  as  any  that  presides  over 
the  growth  of  animal  or  vegetable  life,  they  have 
spread  themselves  out,  in  a  steadfast  organic  devel 
opment,  till  they  arrested  the  world's  attention,  and 
made  epochs  in  its  history.  Witness  the  efforts  of 
modern  philanthropy;  the  reformation  of  the  six 
teenth  century,  and  the  progress  of  the  nineteenth  j 
16 


182  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

and  the  entire  Christian  Faith,  which,  from  the 
despised  Nazarene  and  a  few  uneducated  fishermen, 
— "  the  salt  of  the  world," —  went  forth,  conquer 
ing  and  to  conquer ;  the  grain  of  seed  expanding 
into  that  tree,  the  green  dome  of  whose  branches 
bends  down  over  the  farthest  corners  of  the  earth. 
Forever,  those  benignant  ideas  that  uplift  and  trans 
figure  the  race,  must  have  their  birth  in  a  manger. 
From  a  lowly  advent  they  go  up  to  Jerusalem  with 
an  ovation. 

A  single  disinterested  act,  —  some  patient  suf 
fering,  —  some  disinterested  devotion  of  life  or 
comfort,  for  another's  sake,  for  truth's  sake,  for 
country's  sake,  —  lasts.  Men  see  it  shining  through 
dim  distances,  and  their  bosoms  glow  with  grati 
tude.  Martyrs  for  justice ;  apostles  that  have  held 
fast  their  integrity,  amidst  surrounding  shame  ;  the 
noble-minded  ;  the  self-forgetful ;  incorruptible  pa 
triots  ;  faithful  friends  ; — these  live  forever.'  The 
spot  where  a  divine  sentiment  has  had  the  theatre  of 
its  demonstration,  like  the  stony  dungeon  of  Bon- 
nivard,  becomes  a  shrine  which  after-centuries  visit 
and  bless,  for  the  crown  of  honor  it  sets  on  human 
nature.  Goodness  makes  up,  in  the  intensity  of  its 
life,  for  all  deficiencies  in  the  visible  ranks  of  its 
disciples. 

"  How  far  that  little  candle  throws  its  beams ; 
So  shines  a  good  deed,  in  a  naughty  world." 

Form  one  upright,  genuine  resolve,  and  it  will  uplift 
into  higher  air  your  whole  being.  Just  as  a  few 


GOODNESS    ALMIGHTY.  183 

great  deeds,  among  a  people,  will  dignify  a  whole 
period,  and  give  character  to  a  whole  history,  so 
a  few  heavenly  affections  will  make  a  whole  life 
divine. 

As  goodness  is  the  omnipotence  of  God,  and  the 
manliness  of  man,  so  it  is  the  only  immortality. 
We  are  constantly  deceived  by  the  fallacy  that  con 
founds  the  mere  continuance  of  time,  and  the  em 
ployment  of  it  j  by  imagining  bare  existence  to  be 
an  end,  and  a  good,  in  itself,  apart  from  those  moral 
exercises  which  endow  it  with  its  only  grandeur. 
In  simple  fact,  it  is  quite  possible  so  to  treat  life, 
that  the  arithmetical  computation  of  it  shall  be 
completely  falsified.  Crowd  the  " narrow  span"  of 
a  single  score  of  years  with  "  wise  designs  and  vir 
tuous  deeds,"  and  its  dimensions  open  and  expand, 
till  that  short  career  seems  lengthened  into  a  pro 
tracted  age.  Waste  your  threescore  and  ten  in 
idleness,  dissipation,  or  worldliness,  and  you  dwarf 
them  down  to  a  brief  and  evanescent  day.  The 
young  man,  whose  heart  has  kept  steady  beat  to 
high  resolves,  pure  thoughts,  and  generous  sympa 
thies,  and  has  died  only  because  the  red  blood  that 
warmed  that  heart  has  refused  to  flow,  has  yielded 
larger  sums  of  all  that  makes  life  truly  long,  —  of 
all  that  makes  life  truly  life,  —  than  the  hoary- 
headed  debauchee,  or  worldling,  or  self-seeker,  who 
is  carried  forth  to  burial  with  the  mocked  insignia 
.of  age  upon  his  brow.  Life  is  to  be  measured 
rather  by  its  depth  and  breadth,  than  by  its  length  ; 
rather  by  its  contents  than  its  surface.  Who  would 


184  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

\ 

not  say,  Give  me  the  fate  of  Joseph  Stevens  Buck- 
minster,  dying  at  twenty-eight,  but  leaving  an  in 
fluence  both  genial  and  eternal,  and  a  memory  that 
has  no  bounds  of  blessing,  — rather  than  the  gray 
locks  spread  upon  the  temples  of  Aaron  Burr,  son 
of  blasphemy  aud  crime  ?  A  prolonged  probation 
has  its  value,  but  only  as  it  is  prolonged  usefulness. 
Multiplied  experiences  are  honorable,  but  only  as 
they  bring  multiplied  occasions  for  heroism.  The 
hoary  head  is  a  crown  of  glory,  but  only  as  it  is 
found  in  the  way  of  righteousness. 

An  untimely  death,  what  is  it  1  No  human  life 
is  long,  that  wastes  its  opportunities  and  perverts 
its  powers.  Whenever  the  bad  man  dies,  though 
he  be  superannuated,  there  is  an  untimely  death. 
Even  in  the  decrepitude  of  the  body,  the  death  is 
premature.  Out  of  the  world,  which  it  may  have 
gained,  goes  a  lost  soul. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  life  of  goodness  never  can 
be  brief.  It  is  long  of  necessity,  long  without 
being  anxious  to  be  long ;  long,  in  its  own  deep 
content  and  satisfying  peace  ;  long,  in  the  influ 
ence  it  leaves,  sweet  as  the  breath  of  flowers,  to 
linger  in  the  places  that  know  its  outward  form  no 
longer,  — 

"  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still ;  " 

long,  in  the  blessings  that  grateful  lips  breathe  upon 
it ;  long,  in  its  pledge  and  foretaste  of  immortality. 
Righteous  men  reach  their  full  age  ;  and  so  do  holy 


GOODNESS    ALMIGHTY.  185 

children.  The  young  girl  of  pure  and  disinterested 
heart,  and  serene  trust  in  Heaven,  has  no  short 
period  among  her  kindred,  though  she  be  borne  to 
her  grave  with  all  the  dew  and  bloom  of  early 
beauty  on  her  countenance,  and  its  roundness  in  her 
unshrunken  hand.  In  her  quiet  ministry  to  the 
affections,  in  thoughtful  manners,  and  the  innocent 
wisdom  of  an  unspotted  mind,  she  lived  long,  — 
long  enough  to  teach  us  that  such  a  death  is  no 
untimely  thing.  The  little  child,  passing  away  so 
soon  that  it  never  wrought  one  of  those  deeds  that 
men  call  useful,  if  it  brought  one  new  syllable 
from  the  skies,  if  it  wakened  one  holy  impulse  or 
solemn  purpose,  one  prayer  to  the  Father  of  Spirits, 
by  some  speechless,  sinless  look,  has  not  lived  in 
vain,  has  not  died  too  soon,  has  not  met  an  un 
timely  end.  Noble  affections  are  spiritual  lon 
gevity.  Voltaire,  grown  old  in  the  gloomy  creed  of 
atheism,  died  an  untimely  death.  But  turn  to  the 
lovely  young  Princess  Charlotte,  whom  the  loyal 
devotion  of  a  kingdom,  whom  accomplishments 
and  virtues,  and  the  tenderest  domestic  love,  could 
not  keep  back  from  the  inexorable  tomb  ;  the  gen 
tle,  sacred  light  of  her  beneficent  life  went  down 
full-orbed,  though  it  hastened  to  its  setting  before 
it  had  climbed  to  its  noon.  Says  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  whose  spiritual  insight  is  the  majesty  and 
the  eloquence  of  his  speech,  "He  cannot  be  ac 
counted  young,  who  outliveth  the  old  man.  He 
that  hath  early  arrived  unto  the  measure  of  a  per 
fect  stature  in  Christ,  hath  already  fulfilled  the 
16* 


186  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

prime  and  longest  intention  of  his  being  ;  and  one 
day  lived  after  the  perfect  rule  of  piety,  is  to 
be  preferred  before  sinning  immortality.'-  And  so 
wrote,  grandly,  another  of  the  wisest  of  men : 
"  Being  made  perfect  in  a  short  time,  he  fulfilled  a 
long  time.  Youth,  that  is  soon  perfected,  shall 
condemn  the  many  years  and  old  age  of  the  un 
righteous.  For  honorable  age  is  not  that  which 
standeth  in  length  of  time,  nor  that  is  measured  by 
number  of  years.  But  wisdom  is  the  gray  hair 
unto  men,  and  an  unspotted  life  is  old  age." 

Thus,  too,  if  we  would  judge  of  the  rate  at 
which  we  are  living,  we  are  to  look,  not  at  the 
growth,  or  the  decay  of  the  frame,  the  tightening 
or  slackening  of  the  sinews,  but  at  the  emotions 
that  play  most  freely  through  our  hearts,  and  the 
actions  we  achieve.  Count,  not  your  birth-days, 
but  the  number  of  hearts  you  have  blessed,  and  the 
holy  impulses  you  have  set  in  motion,  if  you  would 
know  how  old  you  are. 

"  Life's  more  than  breath,  and  the  quick  round  of  blood ; 
It  is  a  great  spirit,  and  a  busy  heart. 
We  live  in  deeds,  not  years  ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial." 

The  memorial  of  goodness  is  everlasting.  Who 
ever  bears  a  working  hand  and  a  large  love  through 
the  world,  shall  make  eternal  room  for  himself  in 
its  memory.  Whoever  speaks  fruitful  words,  so 
laden  with  truth  that  they  plant  themselves  in  the 
hearts  of  other  men  with  an  immovable  lodgment, 


GOODNESS    ALMIGHTY.  187 

and  strike  root  there,  shall  realize  the  fulfilment 
of  the  inarticulate  prophecy  within  him,  and  shall 
not  wholly  die,  even  out  of  this  scene  of  his 
present  habitation.  Goodness  is  at  once  creative 
and  monumental ;  ideal  and  form  ;  inspiration  and 
marble.  It  is  one  of  the  finest  human  traits, 
that  men  insist  on  perpetuating  the  excellence 
of  their  lost  companions.  Nothing  is  so  sure 
of  an  apotheosis,  as  Christian  righteousness.  Is 
there  any  other  immortality  worth  having  ? 

A  shrewd  bargainer's  opulence  may  be  burnt  by 
fire,  or  sunk  in  the  sea,  or  scattered  by  spendthrift 
heirs.  The  costly  mansion  has  no  stability,  that  it 
should  syllable  forth  its  builder's  name  forever. 
Children  may,  one  by  one,  all  pass  from  life,  "  or, 
sadder  yet,  may  fall  from  virtue."  But  holiness 
and  benevolence,  having  an  independent  principle 
of  life,  will  be  fresh  and  green  when  the  pillars 
of  the  earth  are  shaken. 

Following  the  spiritual  laws,  your  smallest 
exercise  of  Christian  capability  shall  tell  with  its 
full  efficiency  somewhere,  —  somewhere  in  that 
boundless  realm  where  our  destinies  are  to  be 
consummated,  —  somewhere  within  the  cycle  of 
the  possibilities  of  God. 

The  average  of  Christian  life  in  society  at  this 
moment,  is  not  the  result  of  a  few  men's  extraordi 
nary  gifts  ;  it  is  the  growth  of  slow  centuries,  and 
every  deed  or  word,  back  to  the  remotest  watch  of 
the  morning,  lent  its  share  of  influence  to  make  the 
child,  bom  to-day,  what  he  is.  If  it  is  proved  that 


188  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

every  added  drop  of  water  swells  the  whole  bosom  of 
the  ocean,  and  that  the  ripple  that  drop  makes  on  the 
surface  as  it  falls,  spreads  in  ever-widening  circles, 
till  it  lifts  the  imperceptible  wave  on  the  most 
distant  beach  j  that  the  falling  pebble  sends  its 
little  shock  through  the  solid  centre  of  the  globe ; 
that  -the  motion  of  our  hand  scatters  vibrations 
through  all  the  spaces  of  air,  audible,  were  our  hear 
ing  only  delicate  enough  to  catch  them ;  then  how 
much  easier  to  believe  that  every  thought  and  act 
quivers  through  the  spiritual  creation,  and  resounds 
through  the  lengthening  halls  of  Time. 

The  memorial  of  goodness  is  an  everlasting 
memorial,  because  goodness  itself  is  an  imperishable 
thing.  There  are  few  truths  more  animating  than 
this,  more  practical  or  more  ennobling.  Jesus  said 
of  Mary's  offering,  "  Wheresoever  this  gospel  shall 
be  preached  in  the  whole  world,  there  shall  also 
this  that  this  woman  hath  done  be  told  for  a  memo 
rial  of  her."  And  so  it  has  been.  Wherever  the 
great  gospel  has  gone,  with  its  lofty  message  and 
its  gracious  consolations,  there  also  has  gone  the 
story  of  this  woman's  reverential  affection.  The 
thrilling  eulogy  on  that  humility,  that  devotedness, 
that  significant  act  so  quietly  and  yet  so  earnestly 
done,  when  the  Saviour  received  his  anointing  from 
the  lowly  woman,  has  gone  out  into  all  the  world. 
It  has  become  a  part  of  the  "  good  tidings."  The 
history  of  that  beautiful,  unconscious  sainthood,  has 
travelled  wherever  the  all-conquering  evangel  of 
Christ  has  travelled,  has  been  borne  on  the  same 


GOODNESS    ALMIGHTY.  189 

wide  and  rapid  wings  through  kingdoms,  has  sur 
vived  with  it  a  thousand  revolutions,  has  looked 
with  it  on  the  tragic  course  and  consummation  of 
many  nations'  greatness  and  men's  ambition.  Sim 
ple  and  unostentatious  in  itself,  such  has  been  its 
triumphant  companionship  with  the  everlasting 
oracles. 

It  has  happened  in  accordance  with  the  estab 
lished  order  of  the  spiritual  world.  And  here  is 
encouragement.  Every  such  deed,  not  this  alone, 
lives  on,  after  the  hand  that  wrought  it  has  changed 
into  fine  dust  that  the  wind  might  drive  away. 
Let  him,  however  humble  his  lot,  who  is  oppressed 
with  the  dark  suspicion  that  he  is  living  to  no 
purpose,  dismiss  that  disheartening  doubt.  Each 
honest  look  and  tone  of  his  that  wears  the  stamp 
of  truth,  wears  also  the  seal  of  God ;  and  God 
knows  his  own.  A  thousand  times  more  illustrious 
than  the  exploits  of  valiant  commanders,  it  sinks 
the  brilliant  successes  of  Salamis  and  Waterloo  into 
stupid  failures.  It  towers  up  above  the  golden 
battlements  of  commerce,  and  above  even  some 
showy  and  vain  philanthropies. 

The  charity  that  ministers  its  mercy  without 
asking  to  be  seen  ;  the  prompt  defence  of  the  injured, 
though  hatred  and  scorn  be  the  first  recompense  ; 
the  example  that  pleads  single-handed,  for  unbend 
ing  rectitude,  in  the  face  of  popular  corruptions; 
the  strict  abiding  by  the  truth,  when  falsehood  and 
treachery  would  buy  promotion  and  fame  ;  simplicity 
clung  to  amidst  the  artifices  of  an  insincere  society 


190  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

which  seeks  to  sanction  its  impostor-tricks  by  the 
flimsy  apologies  of  fashion ;  purity  bearing  its 
angelic  testimony  where  vileness  sits  as  judge ;  the 
sufferings  of  the  wronged ;  the  saint's  trials ;  the 
sick  child's  patience ;  the  slave's  cheerfulness  ;  the 
aspiration  after  holiness  ;  the  rising  prayer  of  faith  j 
these,  and  such  as  these,  have  no  element  of  decay 
in  them.  They  are  deathless,  by  the  primal  ordi 
nation  of  their  being.  The  gathered  lightnings  of 
the  tropics  could  not  blast,  nor  mar,  their  serene 
beauty.  The  weight  of  accumulated  mountains 
could  not  extinguish  the  fragrance  with  which  they 
fill  the  earth.  No  blackness  of  darkness  could  dim 
the  censers  of  their  unfailing  light.  Once  commit 
ted  to  this  actual  world,  and  to  the  eye  of  God,  they 
are  sure  of  their  eternity.  Neither  Raphael's  pic 
tures,  nor  Homer's  verse,  nor  Beethoven's  music, 
nor  Canova's  forms,  are  so  indestructible.  Above 
the  brightness  of  the  sun  and  the  stars,  they  will 
burn  on,  when  the  solemn  and  long- watching  lamps 
of  heaven  are  gone  out. 


THE   OCEAN. 


BY    RICHARD    H.    DANA. 


Now  stretch  your  eye  offshore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

Ho  !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath  ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark !  hear  him  !  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite  !  I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break  ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  'tis  pain 
To  think ;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 


192  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  O  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me.     For  countless  years  thou  hast  rolled. 
Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  did'st  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn  ; 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 
At  last  thou  did'st  it  well !    The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept'st  to  death  the  breathing  land  ; 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  though  the  land  is  thronged  again,  O  Sea  ! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call. 
Share  thy  own  spirit ;  it  is  sadness  all ! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  cliff,  —  he  with  the  iron  crown. 
And  see !  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep, 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep  ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR. 


BY    JOSEPH    T.    BUCKINGHAM. 


"  The  noblest  Roman  of  them  all."  —  SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  decease  of  any  individual,  who  has  occupied 
a  prominent  position  in  society,  and  who,  by  the 
exercise  of  any  uncommon  talent,  has  attracted  a  large 
share  of  public  attention,  or  secured  a  permanent  hold 
on  the  hearts  of  friends  and  cotemporaries,  may  prop 
erly  be  followed  by  a  recognition  of  his  claims  to 
respectful  remembrance.  The  writer  of  the  follow 
ing  memoir  has  endeavored  to  exhibit  the  principal 
incidents  in  the  life  of  one,  concerning  whom  his 
personal  recollections  are  vivid  and  imperishable, 
and  to  place  on  record  a  memorial,  — faint  and 
imperfect,  indeed,  but  sincere  and  hearty,  —  of  a 
rich  and  splendid  genius,  whose  mighty  power  has 
often  excited  his  admiration,  and  opened  unexpected 
and  exhaustless  sources  of  intellectual  enjoyment. 

THOMAS  APTHORPE  COOPER  was  born  in  1777. 
His  father  was  a  surgeon,  who  was  well  established 
at  Harrrovv-on-the-Hill,  near  London.  Soon  after 
17 


194  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  birth  of  his  son,  he  left  his  situation,  and  a 
profitable  practice,  and  went  to  India.  There  he 
acquired  a  considerable  property,  but  of  the  greater 
part  of  it  his  family  were  defrauded  at  his  death, 
which  happened  in  India.  His  widow,  was  left 
destitute  of  the  means  of  educating  her  children  ; 
and,  at  nine  years  old,  the  subject  of  this  memoir 
was  taken,  from  motives  of  friendship,  by  William 
Godwin,  the  celebrated  author  of  an  essay  on  Polit 
ical  Justice,  of  St.  Leon,  Caleb  Williams,  and 
several  other  popular  novels  and  romances.  Young 
Cooper  was  educated  by  Mr.  Godwin,  and  intended 
for  a  writer.  He  was  instructed  in  the  democratic 
principles  of  his  friend  and  tutor,  and  maintained, 
through  life,  an  affection  for  republican  forms  of 
government,  and  a  dislike,  amounting  almost  to 
hatred,  for  the  aristocracy  of  his  native  country. 

Under  the  tuition  of  such  a  master,  it  is  not  sur 
prizing  that  the  pupil  was  roused  by  the  French 
revolution,  and  delighted  with  the  anticipated  suc 
cess  of  the  principles,  which  its  instigators  and 
leaders  professed.  Cooper  was  scarcely  seventeen, 
when  his  enthusiasm  prompted  him  to  abandon  the 
pursuits  of  authorship,  and  to  ask  for  a  commission 
in  the  army  of  the  Great  Republic.  It  was  deter 
mined  that  he  should  seek  for  distinction  under  the 
banners  of  liberty,  when  the  war  broke  out  between 
England  and  France,  and  clouded  his  brilliant  pros 
pects  of  military  promotion  and  renown.  He  relin 
quished  his  purpose  of  entering  the  French  army, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  the  stage.  He  commu- 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.  195 

nicated  his  wishes  to  his  benefactor,  but  they  were 
met  with  coldness  and  regret,  and,  when  at  last 
assented  to,  were  accompanied  with  decided  marks 
of  disapprobation. 

But  his  intention  of  becoming  an  actor  by  pro 
fession  was  found  to  be  invincible.  Thomas  Hoi- 
croft,  —  in  political  principles  a  kindred  spirit,  and  a 
popular  dramatic  author,  —  undertook  to  prepare  him 
for  a  first  appearance  on  the  stage.  When  he  was 
thought  sufficiently  qualified,  many  difficulties  oc 
curred  before  an  acceptable  time  and  place  could  be 
obtained  for  introducing  him  to  the  public.  At 
length,  Stephen  Kemble  offered  him  an  opportunity 
to  exhibit  his  qualities  at  the  theatre  in  Edinburgh. 
He  was  then  a  raw  country  youth  of  about  seven 
teen  years  of  age.  On  his  arrival  in  Edinburgh, 
little  conscious  of  his  green  appearance  and  incom- 
petency,  made  up  in  the  extreme  of  rustic  foppery, 
proud  of  his  talents,  and  not  doubting  of  success,  he 
waited  on  Mr.  Kemble,  and  presented  his  letters  of 
introduction.  On  learning  his  name  and  errand, 
Mr.  Kemble 's  countenance  changed  from  a  smile 
of  politeness  to  a  stare  of  disappointment. 

Cooper  had  been  prepared  for  the  part  of  Young 
Norval  in  Home's  tragedy  of  Douglas ;  but,  after  a 
private  rehearsal,  instead  of  the  expected  eclat,  he 
received  a  few  cold  excuses  from  the  manager,  arid 
he  had  the  mortification  to  see  his  part  filled  by  an 
old  man  and  a  bad  player.  He  remained  with  the 
company  through  the  season,  without  ever  appear 
ing  before  the  audience.  From  Edinburgh  he  went 


196  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

with  the  company  to  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  where 
he  lived  as  inactive  and  undistinguished  as  before, 
till,  owing  to  the  want  of  a  person  to  fill  the  part  of 
Malcolm  in  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth,  he  was  permit 
ted  to  show  himself  in  that  humble  character  In 
such  an  inferior  sphere  did  HE  begin  to  move,  who 
afterwards  became  one  of  the  most  brilliant  lumi 
naries  of  the  theatrical  world.  But  his  reception 
by  the  public  was  no  more  encouraging  to  his  am 
bition  than  the  chilling  and  repulsive  coldness  he 
had  at  first  met  with  from  the  manager.  He  passed 
tolerably  well  through  the  trifling  and  unimportant 
dialogue  of  the  part,  till  he  came  to  the  lines,  which 
conclude  the  play,  — 

"  So  thanks  to  all  at  once,  and  to  each  one, 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crowned  at  Scone." 

To  give  effect  to  his  pronunciation  of  these  lines, 
he  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  assumed  the  attitude 
and  smile  of  thankfulness  j  a  slight  embarrassment 
checked  his  utterance,  and  he  paused,  still  retain 
ing  his  posture.  The  prompter  was  heard  by  every 
one,  except  the  bewildered  Malcolm,  who  still  con 
tinued  mute,  —  every  moment  of  his  silence  increas 
ing  his  perplexity.  Macduff  whispered  the  words 
in  his  ear;  Macbeth,  who  lay  slaughtered  at  his 
feet,  broke  the  silence  of  death,  to  assist  his  dumb 
successor ;  the  prompter  spoke  almost  to  vocifera 
tion;  each  Thane,  dead  or  alive,  joined  his  voice  ; 
but  this  was  only  "  confusion  worse  confounded." 
If  he  could  have  spoken,  the  amazed  prince  might 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.  197 

very  properly  have  said,  "  So  thanks  to  all  at  once  ;  " 
but  his  power  of  utterance  was  gone.  A  hiss  broke 
out  in  the  pit,  the  clamor  became  general,  and  the 
curtain  dropped  amidst  a  universal  shout  of  disap 
probation. 

Discomfited  and  humiliated.  Cooper  returned  to 
London.  His  friends,  Godwin  and  Holcroft,  who 
believed  that  he  possessed  the  requisites  for  an 
actor,  sent  him  on  a  tour  of  probation  and  improve 
ment  among  the  provincial  theatres.  They  ex 
pected  that  he  would  thus  acquire  an  acquaintance 
with  the  stage,  and  prepare  himself  for  the  theatres 
of  the  metropolis.  An  evil  genius  still  seemed  to 
preside  over  his  fate.  He  appeared  to  the  managers, 
in  whose  company  he  enlisted,  as  a  raw  recruit, 
with  no  talents  for  the  profession.  Characters  of 
importance  were  considered  utterly  beyond  his 
reach.  Those  of  inferior  rank  he  played  without 
success,  and  he  degenerated  into  a  mere  letter- 
carrier.  In  this  manner  he  spent  a  few  months, 
starving  on  a  paltry  salary,  and  then,  abandoning 
his  irksome  and  degrading  situation,  traveled  on 
foot  to  London. 

Cooper's  friends  now  abandoned  the  idea  of  his 
improvement  by  practice  on  the  provincial  stages. 
Mr.  Holcroft  again  undertook  to  instruct  him  j  heard 
him  recite  passages  from  Shakspeare's  most  distin 
guished  characters ;  and  explained  their  nature  and 
peculiarities,  and  the  passions,  by  which  they  are 
influenced.  Thus  he  was  taught  the  chief  attribute 
of  an  actor,  —  to  conceive  the  intention  of  the 
17* 


198  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

author,  to  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  character, 
arid  identify  himself  with  it.  To  this  discipline, 
Cooper  paid  close  and  industrious  attention,  and  his 
extraordinary  talents  were  rapidly  evolved.  In  a 
few  months,  he  was  thought  qualified  for  appear 
ance  before  a  metropolitan  audience  ;  and,  accord 
ingly,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  performed,  in  one 
week,  the  characters  of  Hamlet  and  Macbeth  on 
the  stage  of  Covent-Garden  Theatre,  to  overflowing 
houses,  and  with  the  most  encouraging  applause. 

Having  met  so  favorable  a  reception  from  a 
London  audience,  Cooper  was  offered  a  liberal 
engagement ;  but,  as  he  was  not  yet  capable  of 
sustaining  the  first  line  of  characters,  he  was  ex 
pected  to  undertake  those  of  a  lower  grade.  These 
conditions  he  declined  to  accept.  Resolved  to  be 
"  Caesar  or  nothing,"  he  refused  any  secondary 
situation,  and  retired  to  the  country,  where  he 
employed  himself  in  cultivating  his  talents,  and 
studying  the  most  important  dramatic  characters. 
While  he  was  thus  engaged,  Mr.  Wignell,  manager 
of  the  Philadelphia  theatre,  visited  England,  to 
raise  a  reinforcement  for  his  company.  He  entered 
into  a  negotiation  with  Cooper,  which  was  promptly 
concluded  j  and,  in  a  few  days,  our  young  tragedian 
was  on  the  Atlantic,  pursuing  his  voyage  to  the 
United  States. 

Cooper  was  not  fortunate  enough  at  first,  to  win 
the  universal  favor  of  the  Philadelphia  audience. 
His  engagement  to  play  the  first  line  of  parts  in 
tragedy,  excluded  from  those  characters  their  old 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.  199 

and  favorite  performers.  He  had  also  some  careless 
and  dissipated  habits,  that  were  not  adapted  to  gain 
respect  or  secure  approbation,  an  evidence  of  which 
was  especially  manifested  on  the  occasion  of  his  first 
benefit,  for  which  but  few  seats  were  taken.  This 
did  not  affect  his  pocket,  for  the  benefit  was  guar 
anteed  to  a  certain  amount ;  but  it  affected  his  pride  ; 
and,  resolved  to  avoid  the  mortification  attendant  on 
"a  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes,"  he  secured 
an  overflowing  house,  by  the  exhibition  of  an 
elephant  on  the  stage,  —  whose  appearance  he 
obtained  by  a  fee  of  sixty  dollars  to  its  owner. 

When  the  winter  campaign  at  Philadelphia  had 
closed,  the  company  made  a  summer  excursion 
to  New- York.  Cooper  made  his  first  bow  to  the 
New- York  audience  in  the  character  of  Pierre,  in 
Otway's  tragedy  of  Venice  Preserved,  and  made  an 
indelible  impression  in  his  favor.  A  coldness  had 
some  time  subsisted  between  him  and  Wignell,  and 
he  wished  to  change  his  situation.  His  engage 
ment  bound  him  in  a  penalty  of  two  thousand 
dollars.  The  sum  was  subscribed  by  several  gen 
tlemen,  who  engaged  to  advance  it,  if  necessary, 
and  Cooper  was  transferred  to  the  New- York  thea 
tre.  There  he  remained,  with  the  exception  of  one 
season  at  Philadelphia,  and  a  short  visit  to  Boston, 
till  1803. 

In  1798,  the  celebrated  Hodgkinson  was  the 
lessee  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre,  Boston,  and,  in  the 
course  of  the  summer  of  that  year,  appeared  there 
with  his  company,  of  which  Cooper  was  a  member, 


200  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

with  the  intention  of  performing  three  months. 
The  yellow  fever  broke  out,  and  spread  consterna 
tion  throughout  the  town.  The  company  per 
formed  but  three  or  four  nights,  and  then  left  the 
place.  The  writer  does  not  recollect  that  Cooper 
played  more  than  twice.  He  opened  in  Hamlet, 
and  his  second  performance  was  the  character  of 
Lord  Hastings,  in  the  tragedy  of  Jane  Shore. 

When,  in  1803,  John  Kemble  had  quarreled  with 
the  managers  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and  gone  to 
Paris,  Cooper  was  invited  to  London,  and  the 
situation  of  Kemble  was  offered  to  him,  if  he  should 
appear  to  satisfy  the  audience.  He  accordingly 
went,  but  did  not  succeed  equal  to  the  expectation 
of  his  friends.  His  performances  were  received 
with  a  good  degree  of  applause ;  but  the  public 
thought  him  inferior  to  their  favorites,  Cooke  and 
Kemble.  After  performing  Hamlet,  Macbeth  and 
Othello,  in  London,  and  a  few  other  parts  in  Liver 
pool,  with  approbation,  he  returned  to  New-York, 
and  was  received  with  a  most  hearty  welcome. 
From  New- York  he  went  to  Philadelphia,  where 
he  added  to  his  already  large  honors,  and  thence  to 
Boston. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1804,  just  after  the  regular 
course  of  benefits  had  commenced,  that  Cooper 
made  his  second  visit  to  Boston.  After  the  adjust 
ment  of  conditions  with  the  performers,  who  had 
not  taken  their  benefit  nights,  he  played  his  principal 
characters.  —  some  of  them  twice,  —  much  to  the 
gratification  of  the  town.  Before  leaving  Boston, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.     201 

he  made  an  engagement  with  the  manager,  Mr. 
Powell,  for  five  months  of  the  next  season,  com 
mencing  the  first  of  October.  During  this  en 
gagement  Cooper  personated,  in  tragedy,  the 
characters  of  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Coriolanus, 
Richard  III.,  Zanga,  Pierre,  Beverly,  Glenalvon, 
Young  Norval,  Romeo,  and  Alexander ;  and  in 
other  pieces,  Benedick,  Octavian,  Leon,  Sir  Edward 
Mortimer,  Duke  Aranza,  Osmond,  and  many  others, 
too  numerous  to  mention.  For  his  benefit,  in  Feb 
ruary,  he  played  Falstaff  in  the  First  Part  of  Henry 
IV.  In  this  part,  he  spoke  the  language  with  great 
force  and  propriety.  Every  word  was  made  to  tell. 
But  he  wanted  ease,  his  limbs  seemed  to  be  entirely 
stiffened  by  the  stuffing  out  of  the  shape  and 
doublet.  It  is  believed  that  he  never  attempted 
the  part  a  second  time. 

From  Boston  Mr.  Cooper  went  to  New- York,  and 
assumed  the  management  of  the  Park  Theatre. 
How  long  he  filled  this  station  is  not  known  to 
the  writer ;  but  he  immediately  began  the  system 
of  staining.  In  this  career,  he  was  eminently  suc 
cessful  for  a  term  of  more  than  twenty  years.  He 
purchased  a  beautiful  estate  at  Bristol,  in  Penn 
sylvania,  on  the  bank  of  the  Delaware,  and  this 
thenceforward  became  his  home.  He  visited  Bos 
ton,  New-York,  and  Philadelphia  every  year,  and 
sometimes  extended  his  tour  to  Charleston,  play 
ing,  at  each  place,  his  favorite  characters. 

In  the  autumn  of  1827,  Mr.  Cooper  made  another 
voyage  to  England,  with  an  intention  of  performing 


202  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

a  few  nights  at  one  of  the  London  theatres.  He 
appeared  in  the  character  of  Macbeth  at  Drury  Lane, 
bat  he  was  received  with  indifference.  Whether 
this  was  caused  by  any  marked  defects  in  the 
performance,  or  by  a  prejudice,  which  had  taken 
possession  of  the  London  public  against  American 
actors,  is  not  known.  Disappointed  at  the  cool 
reception  he  met,  he  soon  returned  to  the  United 
States.  Some  unfavorable  remarks  of  London  crit 
ics  had  arrived  before  him,  which  excited  a  senti 
ment  in  his  favor  among  his  friends  in  Boston.  He 
appeared  before  them  in  the  same  character,  in 
which  he  had  been  condemned  in  London,  but 
which  had  been  considered  in  Boston  and  New- 
York  as  one  of  the  finest  efforts  of  his  genius.  He 
was  received  with  great  applause,  every  body  ad 
mired,  but  some  doubted  whether  his  faculties  were 
not  on  the  wane,  —  a  doubt,  which,  probably,  was 
not  without  justifiable  cause,  but  which  might  not 
have  entered  their  minds,  if  they  had  not  known 
that  the  performance  had  been  condemned  by  trans 
atlantic  criticism. 

Notwithstanding  the  somewhat  equivocal  recep 
tion  he  afterwards  met  in  New-York  and  Philadel 
phia,  Mr.  Cooper  pursued  his  system  of  starring  for 
some  years.  It  became  evident  to  his  friends  that, 
if  his  powers  were  not  on  the  decline,  he  was 
negligent  and  careless,  and  that  his  ambition  had 
suffered  a  lamentable  decadence.  Indulgence  at 
the  social  table  sometimes  extended  beyond  the 
exact  line  of  severe  sobriety,  the  consequences 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.     203 

of  which  were  not  perfectly  concealed  from  the 
audience.  Under  such  circumstances,  his  friends 
were  forced  to  the  conviction,  that  his  "  May  of  life 
had  fallen  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf,"  and  that 
he  could  no  longer  command  public  admiration,  as 
in  his  earlier  years. 

Mr.  Cooper  at  length  perceived  that  his  physical 
faculties  had  so  far  failed  as  to  render  him  unequal 
to  the  task  of  performing  his  favorite  characters, 
with  his  former  energy  and  vigor  ;  and,  as  he  had 
no  disposition  to  "  lag  superfluous  on  the  stage," 
or  to  give  occasion  for  his  friends  to  contrast  the 
feebleness  of  threescore  with  the  brilliancy  and 
power  of  the  middle  age,  he  relinquished  his  pro 
fession,  and  retired  to  his  house  at  Bristol.  But  he 
had  not  been  provident  enough,  in  the  day  of  his 
prosperity,  to  lay  up  sufficient  to  maintain  him  in 
his  declining  years,  in  the  style,  in  which  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  live.  The  estate  on  the  Dela 
ware  was  sold,  and  he  took  up  his  residence  in 
Philadelphia.  Through  the  influence  of  friends, 
he  obtained  a  situation  in  the  custom-house  in 
that  city.  Of  this  he  was  deprived,  when  there 
came  a  change  in  the  administration  of  the  national 
government.  Another  situation,  of  a  similar  char 
acter,  was  afterwards  obtained  for  him  in  New-York. 
This  he  enjoyed  till  his  death,  which  occurred  in 
the  spring  of  1849. 

Mr.  Cooper  was  twice  married.  By  his  first  mar 
riage  he  had  a  son,  who  received  an  appointment 
in  the  navy  of  the  United  States.  His  second 


204  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

marriage  was  with  a  daughter  of  James  Fairlee, 
Esq.,  an  alderman  of  the  city  of  New-York,  —  an 
amiable  and  accomplished  lady,  possessing  superior 
intellectual  powers,  and  most  refined  and  attractive 
manners.  By  this  marriage  he  had  several  chil 
dren  j  one  of  whom  is  the  wife  of  Robert  Tyler, 
Esq.,  son  of  John  Tyler,  ex-president  of  the  United 
States. 

The  limits,  to  which  the  writer  is  confined,  will 
not  allow  of  an  elaborate  review  of  Mr.  Cooper's 
performances ;  indeed,  barely  to  enumerate  them 
all,  would  occupy  several  pages.  It  is  believed 
that  no  actor  of  eminence,  on  the  American  stage, 
had  a  greater  range  of  parts,  or  personated  so  many 
of  the  most  important  characters.  The  list  would 
probably  exceed  a  hundred. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  before  his  last  visit  to 
England,  an  impression  existed  to  some  small  ex 
tent,  even  here,  that  Mr.  Cooper's  powers  were  on 
the  decline.  It  was  said,  occasionally,  that  his 
acting  wanted  the  spirit  and  energy,  which  once 
made  it  so  attracting  and  popular.  If  there  was 
some  truth,  there  was  more  of  querulousness,  in  the 
suggestion.  Any  one,  who  saw  him,  from  year  to 
year,  and  watched  him  with  a  critic's  eye,  must 
have  perceived  a  gradual  improvement.  His  style 
of  acting,  in  1825,  was  indeed  very  different  from 
what  it  was  in  1805;  but  it  was  all  for  the  better. 
There  was  more  of  natural  tenderness  in  his  Hamlet, 
more  of  dignity  in  his  Coriolanus,  more  of  passion 
in  his  Othello,  more  of  the  terrible  sublime  in  his 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.     205 

Macbeth.  There  was  more  of  philosophical  delibe 
ration  in  all  his  parts ;  and  he  seldom  introduced  a 
change  from  his  former  manner,  seldom  made  a 
deviation  from  the  beaten  track,  which  antiquity 
and  fashion  had  consecrated,  —  that  had  not  some 
thing  plausible,  if  not  convincing,  to  oifer  in  its 
vindication. 

In  certain  characters  in  comedy,  Mr.  Cooper  was 
much  admired,  though  not  generally  esteemed  su 
perior  to  some  of  his  contemporaries.  Benedick, 
in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  and  Leon,  in  the 
licentious  play  of  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife, 
were  highly  finished  performances.  Joseph  Sur 
face,  in  his  hands,  was  so  palpable  a  hypocrite,  that 
Sir  Peter  Teazle  must  have  been  an  idiot  not 
to  perceive  the  cheat,  that  was  practised  on  him. 
Of  all  his  attempts  in  comedy,  the  part  of  Duke 
Aranza,  in  the  Honey  Moon,  was  immeasurably 
the  best,  and  in  this  part  he  stood  as  far  above  all 
competition,  as  he  did  in  Hamlet  or  Macbeth. 

In  tragedy,  Mr.  Cooper  was  generally  more  suc 
cessful  in  producing  terror,  than  in  exciting  sym 
pathy  ;  yet  no  one  saw  him  in  Othello,  without  a 
sentiment  of  pity  for  the  wrongs  he  suffered ;  and 
the  pathos  of  Virginius,  in  the  scene  where  he  kills 
his  daughter,  was  sufficient  to  draw  a  tear  from 
the  most  insensible  spectator.  The  strangling  of 
Appius,  in  the  closing  scene  of  that  tragedy,  was 
awfully  sublime  and  terrific. 

Though  always  elegant,  impressive,  and  grace 
ful,  in  declamation,  his  style  of  speaking  was  much 
18 


206  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

improved  as  his  faculties  approached  to  maturity. 
His  Mark  Antony  was  a  model  of  popular  elo 
quence  :  and  his  Brutus,  in  the  same  tragedy,  dis 
played  the  calm,  unimpassioned,  yet  persuasive 
eloquence  of  the  philosopher.  In  the  early  part  of 
his  theatrical  career,  he  considered  Hamlet  as  the 
most  finished  of  all  his  personations,  and  the  public 
voice  seemed  to  coincide  with  him  in  this  decision. 
He  undoubtedly  bestowed  upon  it  laborious  and 
critical  study.  But,  when  his  faculties  were  in 
their  unfaded  maturity,  Macbeth  was,  certainly,  his 
masterpiece.  He  was  completely  identified  with 
the  character.  The  dagger  scene,  which  he  played 
in  a  style  altogether  his  own,  was  a  sublime  effort 
of  histrionic  genius.  In  the  fifth  act  of  the  piece, 
when  the  Thane  had  "  supped  full  with  horrors," 
the  moral  reflections,  inspired  by  remorse  and  fear, 
were  delivered  with  such  exquisite  beauty  and 
feeling,  that  the  crimes  of  the  murderer  were 
almost  obliterated  from  the  mind,  by  pity  for  the 
wretched  victim,  writhing  under  the  tortures  of 
conscience. 

It  would  gratify  the  writer  to  proceed  to  reveal 
the  impressions,  still  deep  in  his  memory,  made  by 
Mr.  Cooper's  personations  of  Zanga,  Richard,  lago, 
Pierre,  Jaffier,  and  many  others  ;  but  vain  would  be 
the  effort  to  transfer  that  impression  to  the  minds 
of  others.  The  genius  of  an  actor  can  be  seen  only 
in  the  living  portraits  he  presents,  —  the  breathing 
personifications  of  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  and 
the  moralist :  — 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  FAVORITE  ACTOR.     207 

Yes,  hapless  artist !  though  thy  skill  can  raise 

The  bursting  peal  of  universal  praise,  — 

Though,  at  thy  beck,  Applause  delighted  stands, 

And  lifts,  Briareus  like,  her  hundred  hands,  — 

Know  Fame  awards  thee  but  a  partial  breath  ; 

Not  all  thy  talents  brave  the  stroke  of  Death. 

Poets  to  ages  yet  unborn  appeal, 

And  latest  times  the  eternal  nature  feel ; 

Though  blended,  here,  the  praise  of  bard  and  player, 

While  more  than  half  becomes  the  actor's  share, 

Relentless  Death  untwists  the  mingled  fame, 

And  sinks  the  player  in  the  poet's  name. 

The  pliant  muscles  of  the  various  face, 

The  mien,  that  gave  each  sentence  strength  and  grace, 

The  tuneful  voice,  the  eye,  that  spoke  the  mind, 

Are  gone,  nor  leave  a  single  trace  behind. 


THE   WIND. 


BY     GEORGE    LUNT. 


THE  wind  has  voices,  that  defy 

The  spirit's  utmost  scrutiny ; 

We  shudder  at  its  sobbing  wail, 

And  shrink  when  howls  the  rolling  gale, 

And  even  its  softest  breath  is  heard 

Like  some  half-muttered,  saddening  word ; 

Of  all  its  tones,  there  is  no  voice 

That  bids  the  thrilling  heart  rejoice. 

The  sailor,  on  the  silent  seas, 
May  long  to  hail  the  freshening  breeze  ; 
The  blast,  that  hurls  the  spattered  foam, 
Will  waft  him  to  his  distant  home ; 
Yet,  while  the  loosening  sail  he  flings, 
That  gives  his  floating  bird  its  wings, 
His  manly  breast  will  often  feel 
Some  strange,  dread  fancy  o'er  it  steal. 


THE    WIND.  209 

When  crouched  beside  the  wintry  blaze, 
And  midnight  sings  its  wonted  lays ; 
The  music  of  the  mingling  tune, 
Now  rising  high,  and  falling  soon, 
The  wailing  and  complaining  tone 
Might  be  a  laugh,  though  more  a  moan ; 
But  wild  or  sad,  or  high  or  low, 
It  ever  takes  a  note  of  woe. 

I  never  hear  it  on  the  shore, 
Concerted  with  the  watery  roar, 
Or  sweeping  where  the  sullen  breeze 
Glides,  like  a  spirit,  through  the  trees ; 
Nor  listen  to  its  mustering  wail, 
When  wintry  tempests  swell  the  gale  ; 
But  haunting  fancies,  dark  and  wild, 
Brood  like  the  dreams  that  daunt  a  child. 

I  Ve  seen  it  stir  the  nested  rills, 

Amid  the  topmost  Crystal  hills  ; 

Have  watched  it  drive  the  clashing  clouds, 

And  scream  along  the  shaken  shrouds ; 

Wild,  strange  !  the  same  in  every  hour, 

Resistless,  formless,  unseen  power! 

A  voice  that  gives  us  no  reply, 

A  sound  that  shakes,  we  know  not  why  ! 

Yet  not  the  less  my  battling  soul 
Springs,  like  a  racer,  to  its  goal ; 
Can  wring  a  joy,  that  else  were  pain, 
When  hurrying  blasts  cry  o'er  the  main, 
Hear  music  in  the  mournful  tune 
That  softens  on  the  gales  of  June  ; 
And  gather,  from  the  fireside  tone, 
A  sad,  sweet  language  all  its  own. 
18* 


NATURE. 


BY    RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 

THERE  are  days  which  occur  in  this  climate,  at 
almost  any  season  of  the  year,  wherein  the  world 
reaches  its  perfection,  when  the  air,  the  heavenly 
bodies,  and  the  earth,  make  a  harmony,  as  if  nature 
would  indulge  her  offspring ;  when,  in  these  bleak 
tipper  sides  of  the  planet,  nothing  is  to  desire  that 
we  have  heard  of  the  happiest  latitudes,  and  we 
bask  in  the  shining  hours  of  Florida  and  Cuba; 
when  every  thing  that  has  life  gives  sign  of  sat 
isfaction,  and  the  cattle  that  lie  on  the  ground 
seem  to  have  great  and  tranquil  thoughts.  These 
halcyons  may  be  looked  for  with  a  little  more 
assurance  in  that  pure  October  weather,  which 
we  distinguish  by  the  name  of  the  Indian  Sum 
mer.  The  day,  immeasurably  long,  sleeps  over 
the  broad  hills  and  warm  wide  fields.  To  have 
lived  through  all  its  sunny  hours,  seems  longevity 
enough.  The  solitary  places  do  not  seem  quite 
lonely.  At  the  gates  of  the  forest,  the  surprised 
man  of  the  world  is  forced  to  leave  his  city  esti 
mates  of  great  and  small,  wise  and  foolish.  The 


NATURE.  211 

knapsack  of  custom  falls  off  his  back  with  the  first 
step  he  makes  into  these  precincts.  Here  is  sanc 
tity  which  shames  our  religions,  and  reality  which 
discredits  our  heroes.  Here  we  find  nature  to  be 
the  circumstance  which  dwarfs  every  other  cir 
cumstance,  and  judges  like  a  god  all  men  that 
come  to  her.  We  have  crept  out  of  our  close  and 
crowded  houses  into  the  night  and  morning,  and 
we  see  what  majestic  beauties  daily  wrap  us  in 
their  bosom.  How  willingly  we  would  escape  the 
barriers  which  render  them  comparatively  impotent, 
escape  the  sophistication  and  second  thought,  and 
suffer  nature  to  entrance  us.  The  tempered  light 
of  the  woods  is  like  a  perpetual  morning,  and  is 
stimulating  and  heroic.  The  anciently  reported 
spells  of  these  places  creep  on  us.  The  stems  of 
pines,  hemlocks,  and  oaks,  almost  gleam  like  iron 
on  the  excited  eye.  The  incommunicable  trees 
begin  to  persuade  us  to  live  with  them,  and  quit 
our  life  of  solemn  trifles.  Here  no  history,  or 
church,  or  state,  is  interpolated  on  the  divine 
sky  and  the  immortal  year.  How  easily  we  might 
walk  onward  into  the  opening  landscape,  absorbed 
by  new  pictures,  and  by  thoughts  fast  succeeding 
each  other,  until  by  degrees  the  recollection  of 
home  was  crowded  out  of  the  mind,  all  memory 
obliterated  by  the  tyranny  of  the  present,  and  we 
were  led  in  triumph  by  nature. 

These  enchantments  are  medicinal,  they  sober 
and  heal  us.  These  are  plain  pleasures,  kindly  and 
native  to  us.  We  come  to  our  own,  and  make 


212  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

friends  with  matter,  which  the  ambitious  chatter  of 
the  schools  would  persuade  us  to  despise.  We 
never  can  part  with  it  ;  the  mind  loves  its  old 
home ;  as  water  to  our  thirst,  so  is  the  rock,  the 
ground,  to  our  eyes,  and  hands,  and  feet.  It  is 
firm  water  ;  it  is  cold  flame  :  what  health,  what 
affinity  !  Ever  an  old  friend,  ever  like  a  dear  friend 
and  brother,  when  we  chat  affectedly  with  strangers, 
comes  in  this  honest  face,  and  takes  a  grave  liberty 
with  us,  and  shames  us  out  of  our  nonsense.  Cities 
give  not  the  human  senses  room  enough.  We  go 
out  daily  and  nightly  to  feed  the  eyes  on  the  hori 
zon,  and  require  so  much  scope,  just  as  we  need 
water  for  our  bath.  There  are  all  degrees  of  natural 
influence,  from  these  quarantine  powers  of  nature, 
up  to  her  dearest  and  gravest  ministrations  to  the 
imagination  and  the  soul.  There  is  the  bucket  of 
cold  water  from  the  spring,  the  wood-fire  to  which 
the  chilled  traveller  rushes  for  safety,  —  and  there 
is  the  sublime  moral  of  autumn  and  of  noon.  We 
nestle  in  nature,  and  draw  our  living  as  parasites 
from  her  roots  and  grains,  and  we  receive  glances 
from  the  heavenly  bodies,  which  call  us  to  solitude, 
and  foretell  the  remotest  future.  The  blue  zenith 
is  the  point  in  which  romance  and  reality  meet.  I 
think,  if  we  should  be  rapt  away  into  all  that  we 
dream  of  heaven,  and  should  converse  with  Gabriel 
and  Uriel,  the  upper  sky  would  be  all  that  would 
remain  of  our  furniture. 

It  seems  as  if  the  day  was  not  wholly  profane,  in 
which  we  have  given  heed  to  some  natural  object. 


NATURE. 


213 


The  fall  of  snowflakes  in  a  still  air,  preserving  to 
each  crystal  its  perfect  form  ;  the  blowing  of  sleet 
over  a  wide  sheet  of  water,  and  over  plains,  the 
waving  rye-field,  the  mimic  waving  of  acres  of 
houstonia,  whose  innumerable  florets  whiten  and 
ripple  before  the  eye ;  the  reflections  of  trees  and 
flowers  in  glassy  lakes ;  the  musical  steaming  odo 
rous  south  wind,  which  converts  all  trees  to  wind- 
harps  ;  the  crackling  and  spurting  of  hemlock  in 
the  flames;  or  of  pine  logs,  which  yield  glory  to 
the  walls  and  faces  in  the  sitting-room,  —  these  are 
the  music  and  pictures  of  the  most  ancient  religion. 
My  house  stands  in  low  land,  with  limited  outlook, 
and  on  the  skirt  of  the  village.  But  I  go  with  my 
friend  to  the  shore  of  our  little  river,  and  with  one 
stroke  of  the  paddle,  I  leave  the  village  politics  and 
personalities,  yes,  and  the  world  of  villages  and 
personalities  behind,  and  pass  into  a  delicate  realm 
of  sunset  and  moonlight,  too  bright  almost  for  spot 
ted  man  to  enter  without  novitiate  and  probation. 
We  penetrate  bodily  this  incredible  beauty :  we  dip 
our  hands  in  this  painted  element:  our  eyes  are 
bathed  in  these  lights  and  forms.  A  holiday,  a 
villeggiatura,  a  royal  revel,  the  proudest,  most 
heart-rejoicing  festival  that  valor  and  beauty,  power 
and  taste,  ever  decked  and  enjoyed,  establishes 
itself  on  the  instant.  These  sunset  clouds,  these 
delicately  emerging  stars,  with  their  private  and 
ineffable  glances,  signify  it  and  proffer  it.  I  am 
taught  the  poorness  of  our  invention,  the  ugliness 
of  towns  and  palaces.  Art  and  luxury  have  early 


214 


THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 


learned  that  they  must  work  as  enhancement  and 
sequel  to  this  original  beauty.  I  am  over  instructed 
for  my  return.  Henceforth  I  shall  be  hard  to  please. 
I  cannot  go  back  to  toys.  I  am  grown  expensive 
and  sophisticated.  I  can  no  longer  live  without 
elegance :  but  a  countryman  shall  be  my  master  of 
revels.  He  who  knows  the  most,  he  who  knows 
what  sweets  and  virtues  are  in  the  ground,  the 
waters,  the  plants,  the  heavens,  and  how  to  come 
at  these  enchantments,  is  the  rich  and  royal  man. 
Only  as  far  as  the  masters  of  the  world  have  called 
in  nature  to  their  aid,  can  they  reach  the  height  of 
magnificence.  This  is  the  meaning  of  their  hang 
ing-gardens,  villas,  garden-houses,  islands,  parks, 
and  preserves,  to  back  their  faulty  personality  with 
these  strong  accessories.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
landed  interest  should  be  invincible  in  the  state 
with  these  dangerous  auxiliaries.  These  bribe  and 
invite  j  not  kings,  not  palaces,  not  men,  not  women, 
but  these  tender  and  poetic  stars,  eloquent  of  secret 
promises.  We  heard  what  the  rich  man  said,  we 
knew  of  his  villa,  his  grove,  his  wine,  and  his  com 
pany,  but  the  provocation  and  point  of  the  invitation 
came  out  of  these  beguiling  stars.  In  their  soft 
glances,  I  see  what  men  strove  to  realize  in  some 
Versailles,  or  Paphos,  or  Ctesiphon.  Indeed,  it  is 
the  magical  lights  of  the  horizon,  and  the  blue  sky 
for  the  background,  which  save  all  our  works  of  art, 
which  were  otherwise  baubles.  When  the  rich 
tax  the  poor  with  servility  and  obsequiousness,  they 
should  consider  the  effect  of  men,  reputed  to  be  the 


NATURE.  215 

possessors  of  nature,  on  imaginative  minds.  Ah  ! 
if  the  rich  were  rich  as  the  poor  fancy  riches !  A 
boy  hears  a  military  band  play  on  the  field  at  night, 
and  he  has  kings  and  queens,  and  famous  chivalry 
palpably  before  him.  He  hears  the  echoes  of  a  horn 
in  a  hill  country,  in  the  Notch  Mountains,  for  exam 
ple,  which  converts  the  mountains  into  an  JEolian 
harp,  and  this  supernatural  tiralira  restores  to  him 
the  Dorian  mythology,  Apollo,  Diana,  and  all  divine 
hunters  and  huntresses.  Can  a  musical  note  be  so 
lofty,  so  haughtily  beautiful  ?  To  the  poor  young 
poet,  thus  fabulous  is  his  picture  of  society ;  he  is 
loyal  •  he  respects  the  rich ;  they  are  rich  for  the 
sake  of  his  imagination  ;  how  poor  his  fancy  would 
be,  if  they  were  not  rich  !  That  they  have  some 
high-fenced  grove,  Avhich  they  call  a  park  ;  that 
they  live  in  larger  and  better  garnished  saloons  than 
he  has  visited,  and  go  in  coaches,  keeping  only  the 
society  of  the  elegant,  to  watering-places,  and  to 
distant  cities,  are  the  groundwork  from  which  lie 
has  delineated  estates  of  romance,  compared  with 
which  their  actual  possessions  are  shanties  and  pad 
docks.  The  muse  herself  betrays  her  son,  and 
enhances  the  gifts  of  wealth  and  well  born  beauty, 
by  a  radiation  out  of  the  air,  and  clouds,  and  forests 
that  skirt  the  road, — a  certain  haughty  favor,  as  if 
from  patrician  genii  to  patricians,  a  kind  of  aristoc 
racy  in  nature,  a  prince  of  the  power  of  the  air. 

The  moral  sensibility  which  makes  Edens  and 
Tempes  so  easily,  may  not  be  always  found,  but 
the  material  landscape  is  never  far  off.  We  can 


216  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

find  these  enchantments  without  visiting  the  Como 
Lake,  or  the  Madeira  Islands.  We  exaggerate  the 
praises  of  local  scenery.  In  every  landscape,  the 
point  of  astonishment  is  the  meeting  of  the  sky  and 
the  earth,  and  that  is  seen  from  the  first  .hillock  as 
well  as  from  the  top  of  the  Alleghanies.  The  stars 
at  night  stoop  down  over  the  brownest,  homeliest 
common,  with  all  the  spiritual  magnificence  which 
they  shed  on  the  Campagna,  or  on  the  marble 
deserts  of  Egypt.  The  uprolled  clouds  and  the 
colors  of  morning  and  evening,  will  transfigure 
maples  and  alders.  The  difference  between  land 
scape  and  landscape  is  small,  but  there  is  great 
difference  in  the  beholders.  There  is  nothing  so 
wonderful  in  any  particular  landscape,  as  the  neces 
sity  of  being  beautiful  under  which  every  landscape 
lies.  Nature  cannot  be  surprised  in  undress.  Beauty 
breaks  in  every  where. 


SONG. 


BY    NATHANIEL    GREENE. 


WHEN  I  wrote  sonnets  to  thy  brow, 
Thine  eye  was  full  and  bright ; 

Thy  cheek  was  not,  as  it  is  now, 
So  thin  and  very  white  ; 

Thy  beauty  then  inspired  the  tale, 

But,  now,  my  love,  thou  'rt  very  pale. 

When  first  to  thee  I  bent  the  knee, 

I M  no  rheumatic  pain, 
My  curling  locks  then  floated  free, 

No  lady  thought  me  plain  ; 
But  now,  like  Samson,  I  bewail 

My  shaved  head  —  and  thou  art  pale  ! 

Six  weeks  ago,  and  thou,  my  dear, 

Could'st  still  enjoy  a  jig ; 
Six  weeks  ago,  and  I  had  hair, 

But  now  I  wear  a  wig ; 
Six  weeks  ago  —  but  cease  the  tale, 

I  'm  bald  —  and  thou  art  very  pale. 
19 


THE   LOST   COLONY. 


BY    JOHN   S.    SLEEPER. 

ALTHOUGH  now  consisting  of  little  else  than  bar 
ren  rocks,  mountains  covered  with  snow  and  ice, 
and  valleys  covered  with  glaciers, — although  its 
coasts  are  now  lined  with  floods  of  ice,  and  cheq 
uered  with  icebergs  of  immense  size,  Greenland  was 
once  easily  accessible ;  its  soil  was  fruitful,  and  well 
repaid  the  cultivation  of  the  earth.  It  was  discov 
ered  by  the  Scandinavians,  towards  the  close  of 
the  tenth  century,  and  a  settlement  was  effected  on 
the  eastern  coast,  in  the  year  982,  by  a  company 
of  adventurers  from  Iceland,  under  command  of 
Eric  the  Red.  Emigrants  flocked  thither  from 
Iceland  and  Norway,  and  the  results  of  European 
enterprise  and  civilization  appeared  on  different 
parts  of  the  coast.  A  colony  was  established  in 
Greenland,  and  it  bid  fair  to  go  on  and  prosper. 

Voyages  of  exploration  were  projected  in  Green 
land,  and  carried  into  effect  by  the  hardy  mariners 
of  those  days.  Papers  have  been  published  by  the 
Danish  Antiquarian  Society  at  Copenhagen,  which 


THE    LOST    COLONY.  219 

go  far  to  show  that  those  bold  navigators  discovered 
the  coast  of  Labrador,  and  proceeding  to  the  south, 
fell  in  with  the  Island  of  Newfoundland ;  continu 
ing  their  course,  they  beheld  the  sandy  shores  of 
Cape  Cod,  centuries  before  the  American  continent 
was  discovered  by  Christopher  Columbus  !  It  is 
even  believed  that  these  Scandinavian  adventurers 
effected  a  settlement  on  the  shores  of  what  is  now 
known  as  Narraganset  Bay,  in  Rhode  Island,  and 
in  consequence  of  the  multitude  of  grapes  which 
abounded  in  the  woods,  they  called  the  new  and 
fruitful  country  Vinland.  But  owing  to  the  great 
number  of  hostile  savages  who  inhabited  these 
regions,  the  colonists,  after  some  sanguinary  skir 
mishes,  forsook  the  coast  and  returned  to  Green 
land. 

The  colony,  however,  continued  to  flourish,  and 
the  intercourse  between  it  and  the  mother  country 
was  constant  and  regular.  In  the  year  1400,  it  is 
said  to  have  numbered  one  hundred  and  ninety 
villages,  a  bishopric,  twelve  parishes,  and  two  mo 
nasteries.  During  this  period  of  four  hundred  years, 
vessels  were  passing,  at  regular  intervals,  between 
the  Danish  provinces  in  Europe  and  Greenland.  But 
in  the  year  1406,  this  intercourse  was  interrupted 
in  a  fatal  manner.  A  mighty  wall  arose,  as  if  by 
magic,  along  the  coast,  and  the  navigators  who 
sought  those  shores,  could  behold  the  mountains  in 
the  distance,  but  could  not  effect  a  landing.  During 
the  greater  part  of  the  fifteenth,  the  whole  of  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  Greenland  was 


220  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

inaccessible  to  European  navigators.  The  whole 
coast  was  blockaded  by  large  masses  and  islands  of 
ice,  which  had  been  drifting  from  the  north  for  years, 
and  which  at  length  chilled  the  waters  of  the  coast, 
and  changed  the  temperature  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  presented  an  impassable  barrier  to  the  entrance 
in  their  ports  of  friend  or  foe.  The  sea,  at  the 
distance  of  miles  from  the  land,  was  frozen  to  a 
great  depth,  vegetation  was  destroyed,  arid  the  very 
rocks  were  rent  with  the  cold.  And  this  intensely 
rigid  weather  continued  for  ages ! 

The  colony  of  Greenland,  after  this  unexpected 
event  took  place,  never  had  any  intercourse  with 
their  friends  in  the  mother  country.  They  were 
cut  oif  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world.  And  by  this 
sudden  and  unanticipated  change  of  climate,  they 
were  also  doubtless  deprived  of  all  resources  within 
themselves.  Their  fate,  however,  is  a  mystery. 
History  is  silent  on  the  subject.  All  which  is 
known  of  this  unfortunate  people  is,  that  they  no 
longer  exist.  The  ruins  of  their  habitations  and 
their  churches  have  since  been  discovered  along  the 
coast  by  adventurous  men,  who  have  taken  advan 
tage  of  an  amelioration  in  the  climate  to  explore 
that  sterile  country,  and  establish  settlements  again 
on  various  parts  of  the  coast ;  and  also  by  mis 
sionaries,  who  have  braved  hardships  and  perils 
to  introduce  among  the  aboriginal  inhabitants  the 
blessings  of  civilization  and  Christianity.  No  other 
traces  of  those  early  European  settlers  have  been 
discovered,  and  we  can  only  speculate  upon  their 
fate. 


THE    LOST    COLONY.  221 

It  would  require  no  vivid  fancy  to  imagine  the 
appalling  sense  of  destitution  which  blanched  the 
features  and  chilled  the  hearts  of  those  unhappy 
colonists,  when  they  began  to  realize  their  forlorn 
condition  ;  when  the  cold  rapidly  increased,  and 
their  harbors  became  permanently  blocked  with 
enormous  icebergs,  and  the  genial  rays  of  the  sun 
were  obscured  by  fogs ;  when  the  winters  became 
for  the  first  time  intensely  rigid,  cheerless  and 
dreary ;  when  the  summers  were  also  cold,  and  the 
soil  unproductive ;  when  the  mountains,  no  longer 
crowned  with  forests,  were  covered  with  snow  and 
ice  throughout  the  year,  and  the  valleys  filled 
with  glaciers  ;  when  the  wonted  inhabitants  of  the 
woods  and  waters  were  destroyed  or  exiled  by  the 
severity  of  the  weather,  and  their  places  perhaps 
supplied  by  monsters  of  a  huge  and  frightful  char 
acter. 

It  were  easy  to  follow  this  people  in  fancy  to 
their  dwellings ;  to  see  them  sad,  spiritless,  and 
despairing,  while  conscious  of  their  imprisoned  and 
cheerless  condition,  and  impending  fate  j  to  watch 
them  as  their  numbers  gradually  diminish  through 
the  combined  influence  of  want  and  continual  suf 
fering  ;  to  behold  them  struggling  for  existence, 
and  striving,  nobly  striving,  to  adapt  their  consti 
tutions,  their  habits,  their  feelings  and  their  wants, 
to  their  strangely  changed  circumstances,  but  all  in 
vain  ;  to  behold  them  gazing  from  their  icy  cliffs, 
with  straining  eyes,  to  the  eastward,  towards  that 
quarter  of  the  globe,  so  far  distant,  where  their 
19* 


222  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

friends  and  relations  reside,  in  a  more  genial  clime, 
surrounded  with  all  the  blessings  of  life,  but  com 
pelled  to  rest  their  eyes  on  a  vast,  dreary,  and 
monotonous  sea  of  ice,  a  mass  of  frozen  waves, 
surrounding  myriads  of  icebergs,  extending  to  the 
utmost  limit  of  their  vision. 

Fancy  might  even  go  farther  than  this,  and  por 
tray  the  last  of  these  unhappy  colonists,  who  had 
lingered  on  the  stage  of  life,  until  he  had  seen  all 
of  his  companions,  all,  of  each  sex  and  every  age, 
die  a  miserable  death,  the  prey  of  want  and  de 
spair.  Poets  have  described,  in  lines  of  beauty  and 
sublimity,  the  horrors  which  may  be  supposed  to 
surround  "  the  last  man ;  "  but  there  seems  to  be  a 
remoteness,  and  indeed  an  air  of  improbability 
about  the  subject,  which  robs  it  of  half  its  force 
and  majesty.  But  here  is  an  event  which  has 
actually  occurred,  and  worthy  of  being  commemo 
rated  by  the  ablest  pen  in  the  land.  Here,  indeed, 
we  may  imagine,  without  offending  probability,  the 
wild  horrors,  invading  the  very  temple  of  reason, 
and  accumulating,  until  madness  takes  possession 
of  the  mind.  Here  we  may  look  for  the  reality  of 
the  fanciful  picture,  presented  with  so  much  ter 
rible  distinctness  by  the  poets. 


TO   A   LADY, 

WITH    A    HEAD    OP    POPE    PIUS    NINTH. 
BY  THOMAS  W.  PARSONS,  JR. 


MY  gift  went  freighted  with  a  hope  — 

Slight  bark  upon  a  doubtful  sea ! 
Yet,  under  convoy  of  the  Pope, 
Successful  may  the  venture  be  ; 
For  thus  good  Pius  whispered  me, 
"  Mi  fili,  Benedicite  !  " 

His  blessing  now  I  will  transfer 

To  thee,  although  I  hardly  know 
What  Latin  form  appropriate  were  — 
"  Cor  meum  !  "  —  shall  I  call  thee  so  ? 
No,  let  the  learned  language  be, 
But,  sweetheart,  Benedicite ! 

Your  cardinals  are  blooming  yet, 

Pride  of  the  brook !  the  meadow's  gem  ! 

So,  ere  his  sun  be  wholly  set, 
I  send,  in  due  return  for  them, 

The  Pope  —  hark,  love,  he  says  to  thee 
"  My  daughter,  Benedicite  !  " 


224  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Oh  take  his  blessing  then,  —  for  ne'er 

Did  evil  come  from  holy  touch ; 
A  righteous  man's  effectual  prayer, 
As  the  Saint  says,  availeth  much,  — 
So,  for  this  once,  a  Papist  be, 
Nor  scorn  his  Benedicite  ! 


A  PICTURE  OF  WAR. 


BY    THEODORE    PARKER. 

To  make  the  evils  of  war  still  clearer,  and  to 
bring  them  home  to  your  door,  let  us  suppose  there 
was  war  between  the  counties  of  Suffolk,  on  the 
one  side,  and  Middlesex  on  the  other ;  this  army  at 
Boston,  that  at  Cambridge.  Suppose  the  subject 
in  dispute  was  the  boundary  line  between  the  two, 
—  Boston  claiming  a  pitiful  acre  of  flat  land,  which 
the  ocean  at  low  tide  disdained  to  cover.  To  make 
sure  of  this,  Boston  seizes  whole  miles  of  flats, 
unquestionably  not  its  own.  The  rulers  on  one 
side  are  fools,  and  traitors  on  the  other.  The 
two  commanders  have  issued  their  proclamations ; 
the  money  is  borrowed ;  the  whiskey  provided  ; 
the  soldiers — Americans,  Negroes,  Irishmen,  all 
the  able-bodied  men  —  are  enlisted.  The  Bos- 
tonians  wish  to  seize  Cambridge,  burn  the  houses, 
churches,  college  halls,  and  plunder  the  library. 
The  men  of  Cambridge  wish  to  seize  Boston,  burn 
its  houses  and  ships,  plundering  its  wares  and  its 
goods.  Martial  law  is  proclaimed  on  both  sides. 
The  men  of  Cambridge  cut  asunder  the  bridges, 


226  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

and  make  a  huge  breach  in  the  mill-dam  —  planting 
cannon  to  enfilade  all  those  avenues.  Forts  crown 
the  hill-tops,  else  so  green.  Men,  madder  than 
lunatics,  are  crowded  into  the  Asylum.  The  Bos- 
tonians  rebuild  the  old  fortifications  on  the  Neck ; 
replace  the  forts  on  Beacon  Hill,  Fort  Hill,  Copps 
Hill,  levelling  houses  to  make  room  for  redoubts  and 
bastions.  The  batteries  are  planted,  the  mortars 
got  ready  ;  the  furnaces  and  magazines  are  all  pre 
pared.  The  three  hills  are  grim  with  war.  From 
Copps  Hill  men  look  anxious  to  that  memorable 
height  the  other  side  of  the  water.  Provisions  are 
cut  off  in  Boston ;  no  man  may  pass  the  lines ;  the 
aqueduct  refuses  its  genial  supply ;  children  cry 
for  their  expected  food.  The  soldiers  parade  — 
looking  somewhat  tremulous  and  pale  ;  all  the  able- 
bodied  have  come,  the  vilest  most  willingly ;  some 
are  brought  by  force  of  drink,  some  by  force  of 
arms.  Some  are  in  brilliant  dresses  —  some  in  their 
working  frocks.  The  banners  are  consecrated  by 
solemn  words.  Your  church  towers  are  military 
posts  of  observation.  Last  night  the  Bostonians 
made  a  feint  of  attacking  Chaiiestown,  raining 
bombs  and  red-hot  cannon  balls  from  Copps  Hill, 
till  they  have  burnt  a  thousand  houses,  where  the 
British  burnt  not  half  so  many.  Women  and 
children  fled  screaming  from  the  blazing  rafters 
of  their  homes.  The  men  of  Middlesex  crowd 
into  Charlestown. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Bostonians  hastily  repair  a 
bridge  or  two ;  some  pass  that  way,  some  over  the 


A    PICTURE    OF    WAR.  227 

Neck  —  all  stealthily  by  night  —  and  while  the  foe 
expect  them  at  Bunker's,  amid  the  blazing  town, 
they  have  stolen  a  march  and  rush  upon  Cambridge 
itself.  The  Cambridge  men  turn  back.  The  bat 
tle  is  fiercely  joined.  You  hear  the  cannon,  the 
sharp  report  of  musketry.  You  crowd  the  hills, 
the  house-tops  j  you  line  the  Common,  you  cover 
the  shore  —  yet  you  see  but  little  in  the  sulphurous 
cloud.  Now  the  Bostonians  yield  a  little  —  a  rein 
forcement  goes  over.  All  the  men  are  gone  ;  even 
the  gray-headed  who  can  shoulder  a  firelock. 
They  plunge  into  battle,  mad  with  rage,  madder 
with  rum.  The  chaplains  loiter  behind. 

"  Pious  men,  whom  duty  brought, 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 
To  shrive  the  dying,  bless  the  dead  !  " 

The  battle  hangs  long  in  even  scale.  At  length  it 
turns.  The  Cambridge  men  retreat  —  they  run  — 
they  fly.  The  houses  burn.  You  see  the  churches 
and  the  colleges  go  up,  a  stream  of  fire.  That 
library — founded  'mid  want  and  war  and  sad  secta 
rian  strife,  slowly  gathered  by  the  saving  of  two 
centuries,  the  hope  of  the  poor  scholar,  the  boast  of 
the  rich  one  —  is  scattered  to  the  winds  and  burnt 
with  fire,  for  the  solid  granite  is  blasted  by  powder, 
and  the  turrets  fall.  Victory  is  ours.  Ten  thou 
sand  men  of  Cambridge  lie  dead  ;  eight  thousand 
of  Boston.  There  writhe  the  wounded  ;  men  who, 
but  few  hours  before,  were  poured  over  the  battle 
field  a  lava-flood  of  fiery  valor  —  fathers,  brothers, 


228  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

husbands,  sons.  There  they  lie,  torn  and  mangled  ; 
black  with  powder ;  red  with  blood  ;  parched  with 
thirst ;  cursing  the  load  of  life  they  now  must  bear 
with  bruised  frames  and  mutilated  limbs.  Gather 
them  into  hasty  hospitals  —  let  this  man's  daughter 
come  to-morrow  and  sit  by  him,  fanning  away  the 
flies  ;  he  shall  linger  out  a  life  of  wretched  anguish 
unspoken  and  insupportable,  and  when  he  dies  his 
wife  religiously  will  keep  the  shot  which  tore  his 
limbs.  There  is  the  battle-field  !  Here  the  horse 
charged  ;  there  the  howitzers  scattered  their  shells, 
pregnant  with  death ;  here  the  murderous  canister 
and  grape  mowed  down  the  crowded  ranks  ;  there 
the  huge  artillery,  teeming  with  murder,  was 
dragged  o'er  heaps  of  men  —  wounded  friends  who 
just  now  held  its  ropes,  men  yet  curling  with 
anguish,  like  worms  in  the  fire.  Hostile  and 
friendly,  head  and  trunk  are  crushed  beneath  those 
dreadful  wheels.  Here  the  infantry  showered  their 
murdering  shot.  That  ghastly  face  was  beautiful 
the  day  before  —  a  sabre  hewed  its  half  away. 

"  The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  must  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  friend,  foe,  in  one  red  burial  blent." 

Again  'tis  night.  Oh,  what  a  night,  and  after 
what  a  day  !  Yet  the  pure  tide  of  woman's  love  — 
which  never  ebbs  since  earth  began  —  flows  on  in 
spite  of  war  and  battle.  Stealthily,  by  the  pale 
moonlight,  a  mother  of  Boston  treads  the  weary 
miles  to  reach  that  bloody  spot;  a  widow  she  — 


A    PICTURE    OF    WAR.  229 

seeking  among  the  slain  her  only  son.  The  arm  of 
power  drove  him  forth  reluctant  to  the  fight.  A 
friendly  soldier  guides  her  way.  Now  she  turns 
over  this  face,  whose  mouth  is  full  of  purple  dust, 
bit  out  of  the  ground  in  his  extremest  agony  —  the 
last  sacrament  offered  him  by  Earth  herself;  now 
she  raises  that  form,  cold,  stiff,  stony  and  ghastly 
as  a  dream  of  hell.  But,  lo  !  another  comes  —  she 
too  a  woman  —  younger  and  fairer,  yet  not  less 
bold,  a  maiden  from  the  hostile  town  to  seek  her 
lover.  They  meet  —  two  women  among  the  corps 
es  ;  two  angels  come  to  Golgotha,  seeking  to  raise 
a  man.  There  he  lies  before  them  ;  they  look,  — 
yes,  'tis  he  you  seek  ;  the  same  dress,  form,  features 
too  ;  —  'tis  he,  the  Son,  the  Lover.  Maid  and 
mother  could  tell  that  face  in  any  light.  The 
grass  is  wet  with  his  blood.  Yes,  the  ground  is 
muddy  with  the  life  of  men.  The  mother's  inno 
cent  robe  is  drabbled  in  the  blood  her  bosom  bore. 
Their  kisses,  groans  and  tears  recall  the  wounded 
man.  He  knows  the  mother's  voice  ;  that  voice 
yet  more  beloved.  His  lips  move  only,  for  they 
cannot  speak.  He  dies  !  The  waxing  moon  moves 
high  in  heaven,  walking  in  beauty  'mid  the  clouds, 
and  murmurs  soft  her  cradle  song  unto  the  slumber 
ing  earth.  The  broken  sword  reflects  her  placid 
beams.  A  star  looks  down  and  is  imaged  back  in 
a  pool  of  blood.  The  cool  night  wind  plays  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees  shivered  with  shot.  Nature 
is  beautiful  —  that  lovely  grass  underneath  their 
feet  ;  those  pendulous  branches  of  the  leafy  elm  ; 
20 


230  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  stars  and  that  romantic  moon  lining  the  clouds 
with  silver  light !  A  groan  of  agony,  hopeless  and 
prolonged,  wails  out  from  that  bloody  ground.  But 
in  yonder  farm  the  whippoorwill  sings  to  her  lover 
all  night  long ;  the  rising  tide  ripples  melodious 
against  the  shores.  So  wears  the  night  away,  — 
Nature,  all  sinless,  round  that  field  of  wo. 

"  The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 

With  breath  all  incense  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scoin, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, 
And  glowing  into  day." 

What  a  scene  that  morning  looks  upon  !  I  will 
not  turn  again.  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  But 
their  blood  cries  out  of  the  ground  against  the  rulers 
who  shed  it, —  "Cain!  where  are  thy  brothers?" 
What  shall  the  Fool  answer?  What  the  Traitor 
say? 


LOVE. 


BY    WILLIAM    W.    STORY. 


LOVE  never  out  of  Likeness  springs, 

Joy  marries  not  to  Joy  ; 
The  strong  unto  the  gentle  clings, 

The  maiden  to  the  boy. 
Around  the  oak  the  ivy  twines, 

The  granite  fronts  the  sea  ; 
Each  to  its  opposite  inclines 

By  strange  affinity. 

The  star  into  the  deep  looks  down, 

The  deep  dreams  of  the  star ; 
Nor  distance  nor  decay  are  known, 

Where  love  and  longing  are. 
Who  shall  the  mystery  unfold, 

That  maketh  hearts  agree  ? 
The  secret  never  will  be  told, 

That  bindeth  thee  to  me. 


PREJUDICE. 


BY    SAMUEL    G.    GOODRICH. 

AMONG  the  hardy  pioneers  who  first  settled  along 
the  borders  of  the  Ohio,  was  an  Englishman,  with 
two  sons.  These  were  twins,  and  his  only  children. 
He  was  half  husbandman  and  half  hunter,  and  the 
two  boys  followed  his  double  vocation.  They 
were  seldom  separated,  and  never  seemed  happy 
but  in  each  other's  society.  If  one  was  engaged  in 
any  employment,  the  other  must  share  it.  If  one 
took  his  rifle,  and  plunged  into  the  forest  in  pursuit 
of  the  wild  deer,  the  other,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
took  his,  and  became  his  companion.  Thus  they 
grew  up  together,  participating  in  each  other's 
pleasures  and  fatigues  and  dangers.  They  were 
therefore  united,  not  only  by  the  ties  of  kindred 
and  a  common  home,  but  by  a  thousand  recollec 
tions  of  sylvan  sports,  and  wild  adventures,  and 
hair-breadth  escapes,  enjoyed  or  experienced  in  each 
other's  company. 

About  the  time  that  these  brothers  were  entering 
upon  manhood,  the  French  and  Indian  war  broke 
out  along  our  western  frontier.  In  one  of  the 


PREJUDICE.  233 

bloody  skirmishes  that  soon  followed,  the  father 
and  the  two  sons  were  engaged.  The  former  was 
killed,  and  one  of  the  twins,  being  taken  by  the 
French  troops,  was  carried  away. 

The  youth  that  remained,  returned  after  the  fight 
to  his  father's  home ;  but  it  was  to  him  a  discon 
solate  and  desolate  spot.  His  mother  had  been 
dead  for  years :  his  father  was  slain,  and  his  only 
brother,  he  that  was  bound  to  him  by  a  thousand 
ties,  was  taken  by  the  enemy  and  carried  away, 
he  knew  not  whither.  But  it  seemed  that  he  could 
not  live  in  separation  from  him.  Accordingly,  he 
determined  to  visit  Montreal,  where  he  understood 
his  brother  had  been  taken  ;  but,  about  this  time, 
he  was  told  that  he  had  died  of  wounds  received  in 
the  skirmish  which  had  proved  fatal  to  the  father, 
and  brought  captivity  to  the  son. 

The  young  man,  therefore,  for  a  time  abandoned 
himself  to  grief;  but  at  last  he  went  to  Marietta, 
and  after  a  few  years  was  married,  and  became  the 
father  of  several  children.  But  the  habits  and 
tastes  of  his  early  life  were  still  upon  him,  and  after 
some  years  he  migrated  farther  into  the  wilderness, 
and  settled  down  upon  the  banks  of  the  Sandusky 
river.  Here  he  began  to  fell  the  trees  and  clear 
the  ground,  and  had  soon  a  farm  of  cultivated  land, 
sufficient  for  all  his  wants. 

But  the  forester  was  still  a  moody  and  discontented 

man.     His  heart  was  indeed  full  of  kindness  to  his 

family  ;  but  the  death  of  his  brother  had  left  a  blank 

in  his  bosom,  which  nothing  seemed  to  fill.     Time, 

20* 


234  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

it  is  true,  gradually  threw  its  veil  over  early  memo 
ries,  and  softened  the  poignancy  of  regret  for  the 
loss  of  a  brother  who  had  seemed  a  part  of  himself, 
and  whose  happiness  was  dearer  than  his  own.  But 
still,  that  separation  had  given  a  bias  to  his  mind 
and  a  cast  to  his  character,  which  no  subsequent 
event  or  course  of  circumstances  could  change.  He 
was  at  heart  a  solitary  man,  yearning  indeed  for 
the  pleasure  of  society,  yet  always  keeping  himself 
aloof  from  mankind.  He  had  planted  himself  in 
the  wilderness,  far  from  any  other  settlement,  as  if 
purposely  burying  himself  in  the  tomb  of  the 
forest. 

There  was  one  trait  which  strongly  marked  the 
character  of  this  man ;  and  that  was  a  detestation 
of  every  thing  French.  This,  doubtless,  origi 
nated  in  the  fact,  that  his  brother's  captivity  and 
death  were  chargeable  to  the  French  army,  and  he 
naturally  enough  learned  to  detest  every  thing  that 
could  be  associated  with  the  cause  of  that  event 
which  darkened  his  whole  existence.  A  striking 
evidence  of  this  deep  and  bitter  prejudice,  was 
furnished  by  the  manner  in  which  the  forester 
treated  a  Frenchman  who  lived  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Sandusky  river,  and  who  was,  in  fact, 
Ihe  only  person  that  could  be  esteemed  his  neighbor. 
Being  divided  by  a  considerable  river,  the  two  men 
were  not  likely  to  meet  except  by  design  ;  and  as 
the  Frenchman  was  advised  of  the  prejudice  of  his 
neighbor  against  his  countrymen,  there  was  no 
personal  intercourse  between  them. 


PREJUDICE.  235 

Thus  they  lived  for  many  years,  their  families 
sometimes  meeting ;  but  quarrel  and  altercation 
almost  invariably  ensued  upon  such  occasions.  In 
all  these  cases,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  farmer  to 
indulge  in  harsh  reflections  upon  the  French  char 
acter,  and  each  action  of  his  neighbor  was  com 
mented  upon  with  bitterness.  Every  unfavorable 
rumor  touching  the  Frenchman's  character,  how 
ever  improbable,  was  readily  believed  ;  and  his 
actions,  that  deserved  commendation  rather  than 
blame,  were  distorted  into  evil,  by  misrepresentation 
or  the  imputation  of  bad  motives. 

Thus  these  two  families,  living  in  the  solitude  of 
the  mighty  forest,  and  impelled,  it  would  seem,  by 
the  love  of  sympathy  and  society,  to  companionship, 
were  still  separated  by  a  single  feeling — that  of 
prejudice.  The  two  men,  so  far  as  they  knew,  had 
never  met,  and  had  never  seen  each  other ;  but  that 
strange  feeling  of  the  human  breast,  that  judges 
without  evidence,  and  decides  without  consulting 
truth  or  reason,  parted  them  like  a  brazen  wall. 
Under  circumstances,  when  every  thing  around 
might  seem  to  enforce  kindness  upon  the  heart ; 
even  here,  amid  the  majesty  of  nature's  primeval 
forest,  and  away  from  the  ferment  of  passions 
engendered  amid  towns  and  villages ;  to  this  lone 
spot  the  tempter  had  also  migrated,  and  put  into 
the  bosom  of  man  the  serpent  of  an  evil  passion. 

Thus  things  passed,  till  the  two  men  had  num 
bered  nearly  eighty  years.  At  last,  the  rumor  came 
to  the  farmer  that  the  Frenchman  was  dying,  and 


236  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

it  was  remarked  that  a  smile,  as  of  pleasure,  passed 
over  his  furrowed  face.  Soon  after,  a  messenger 
came,  saying  that  the  dying  Frenchman  wished  to 
see  his  neighbor,  and  begging  him,  in  the  name  of 
Heaven,  to  comply  with  his  request.  Thus  urged, 
the  old  man  took  his  staff,  proceeded  to  the  river, 
and  being  set  across  in  a  boat,  advanced  toward  the 
Frenchman's  cabin.  As  he  approached  it,  he  saw 
the  aged  man  reclining  upon  a  bed  of  bear-skins, 
beneath  a  group  of  trees,  near  his  house.  By  his 
side  were  his  children,  consisting  of  several  grown 
up  men  and  women.  They  were  kneeling,  and  in 
tears,  but  as  the  farmer  approached,  they  rose,  and 
at  a  sign  from  their  dying  father,  stood  a  little  apart, 
while  the  stranger  approached.  The  Frenchman 
held  out  his  hand,  and  said  in  a  feeble  voice, 
"  Brother,  I  am  dying — let  us  part  in  peace." 

Our  old  farmer  took  the  cold  hand,  and  tears, 
unwonted  tears,  coursed  down  his  cheeks.  For 
a  moment  he  could  not  speak.  But  at  last  he 
said,  "  My  friend,  you  speak  English,  and  you 
call  me  brother.  I  thought  you  was  a  Frenchman, 
and  I  have  ever  esteemed  a  Frenchman  as  an 
enemy.  And  God  knows  I  have  cause,  for  I  had 
once  a  brother,  indeed.  He  came  into  life  at  the 
same  hour  as  myself,  for  we  were  twins ;  and 
all  our  early  days  were  passed  in  undivided  com 
panionship.  Our  hearts  were  one,  for  we  had  no 
hopes  or  fears,  no  wants  or  wishes,  no  pleasures  or 
pastimes,  that  were  not  mutually  shared.  But  in 
an  evil  hour  I  was  robbed  of  that  brother  by  the 


PREJUDICE.  237 

French  army.  My  father  fell  in  the  fight,  and  since 
that  dark  day,  my  life  has  been  shadowed  with 
sorrow." 

A  convulsion  seemed  to  shake  the  emaciated 
form  of  the  sick  old  man,  and  for  a  time  he  could 
not  speak.  At  last,  he  faltered  forth,  "  Have  you 
never  seen  your  brother  since  that  day  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  said  the  other. 

"  Then  you  see  him,  here  !  "  said  the  Frenchman, 
and  falling  backward  upon  his  couch  of  skins,  a 
slight  tremor  ran  over  his  frame,  and  he  was  no 
more. 

The  explanation  of  the  scene  was  this.  The 
lifeless  man  was  indeed  the  brother  of  the  farmer. 
After  being  taken  by  the  French  troops,  as  has 
been  related,  he  was  conducted  to  Montreal,  where 
he  was  detained  for  nearly  two  years.  After  his 
release,  he  retraced  his  steps  to  his  former  home,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  but  found  his  birth-place 
deserted  ;  he  also  learned  the  death  of  his  father 
and  the  departure  of  his  brother.  For  years  he 
sought  the  latter  in  vain,  and  at  last  returned  to 
Montreal.  Here  he  married,  and  after  some  years, 
removed,  with  a  numerous  family,  to  the  borders  of 
the  Sandusky.  He  at  length  discovered  that  his 
nearest  neighbor  was  his  brother  ;  but  having  found 
himself  repulsed  as  a  Frenchman,  and  treated  rather 
like  a  robber  than  a  friend,  a  feeling  of  injury 
and  dislike  had  arisen  in  his  breast,  and  therefore 
he  kept  the  secret  in  his  bosom,  till  it  was  spoken 
in  the  last  moments  of  existence. 


238  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Thus  it  happened,  in  the  tale  we  have  told,  that 
prejudice,  obstinately  indulged,  prevented  the  dis 
covery  of  an  important  truth,  and  kept  the  mind 
that  was  the  subject  of  it,  wrapped  in  gloom  and 
sorrow  for  years,  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
blessed  by  the  realizing  of  its  fondest  hopes.  And 
thus  prejudice  often  prevents  a  man  from  discovering 
that  the  object  of  his  dislike,  could  he  see  and 
know  him  as  he  is,  is  indeed  a  man,  and,  as  such,  a 
brother. 


ON   A   BOOK    OF    SEA-MOSSES. 

SENT    TO    AN    EMINENT    ENGLISH    POET. 
BY    JAMES    T.    FIELDS. 

To  him  who  sang  of  Venice,  and  revealed 
How  Wealth  and  Glory  clustered  in  her  streets, 
And  poised  her  marble  domes  with  wondrous  skill, 
We  send  these  tributes,  plundered  from  the  sea. 
These  many-colored,  variegated  forms 
Sail  to  our  rougher  shores,  and  rise  and  fall 
To  the  deep  music  of  the  Atlantic  wave. 
Such  spoils  we  capture  where  the  rainbows  drop, 
Melting  in  ocean.     Here  are  broideries  strange, 
Wrought  by  the  sea-nymphs  from  their  golden  hair, 
And  wove  by  moonlight.     Gently  turn  the  leaf. 
From  narrow  cells,  scooped  in  the  rocks,  we  take 
These  fairy  textures,  lightly  moored  at  morn. 
Down  sunny  slopes,  outstretching  to  the  deep, 
We  roam  at  noon,  and  gather  shapes  like  these. 
Note  now  the  painted  webs  from  verdurous  isles, 
Festooned  and  spangled  in  sea-caves,  and  say 
What  hues  of  land  can  rival  tints  like  those, 
Torn  from  the  scarfs  and  gonfalons  of  kings 
Who  dwell  beneath  the  waters. 

Such  our  Gift, 

Culled  from  a  margin  of  the  western  world, 
And  offered  unto  Genius  in  the  old. 


THE   YANKEE   ZINCALT. 


BY    JOHN    G.     WHITTIER. 

HARK  !  a  rap  at  my  door.  Welcome  any  body, 
just  now.  One  gains  nothing  by  attempting  to 
shut  out  the  sprites  of  the  weather.  They  come  in 
at  the  key-hole  ;  they  peer  through  the  dripping 
panes  ;  they  insinuate  themselves  through  the  cre 
vices  of  the  casement,  or  plump  down  chimney 
astride  of  the  rain-drops. 

I  rise  and  throw  open  the  door.  A  tall,  sham 
bling,  loose-jointed  figure  ;  a  pinched,  shrewd  face, 
sun-brown  and  wind-dried  ;  small,  quick-winking, 
black  eyes.  There  he  stands,  the  water  dripping 
from  his  pulpy  hat  and  ragged  elbows. 

I  speak  to  him,  but  he  returns  no  answer.  With 
a  dumb  show  of  misery,  quite  touching,  he  hands 
me  a  soiled  piece  of  parchment,  whereon  I  read 
what  purports  to  be  a  melancholy  account  of  ship 
wreck  and  disaster,  to  the  particular  detriment,  loss 
and  damnification  of  one  Pietro  Frugoni,  who  is,  in 
consequence,  sorely  in  want  of  the  alms  of  all  char 
itable  Christian  persons,  and  who  is,  in  short,  the 
bearer  of  this  veracious  document,  duly  certified 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  241 

and  endorsed  by  an  Italian  consul  in  one  of  our 
Atlantic  cities,  of  a  high  sounding,  but,  to  Yankee 
organs,  unpronounceable  name. 

Here  commences  a  struggle.  Every  man,  the 
Mahometans  tell  us,  has  two  attendant  angels,  the 
good  one  on  his  right  shoulder,  the  bad  on  his  left. 
"  Give,"  says  Benevolence,  as  with  some  difficulty 
I  fish  up  a  small  coin  from  the  depths  of  my  pocket. 
"  Not  a  cent,"  says  selfish  Prudence,  and  I  drop  it 
from  my  fingers.  "  Think,"  says  the  good  angel, 
"  of  the  poor  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  just  escaped 
from  the  terrors  of  the  sea-storm,  in  which  his  little 
property  has  perished,  thrown  half  naked  and  help 
less  on  our  shores,  ignorant  of  our  language,  and 
unable  to  find  employment  suited  to  his  capacity." 
"A  vile  impostor !  "  replies  the  left  hand  sentinel. 
"His  paper,  purchased  from  one  of  those  ready 
writers  in  New  York,  who  manufacture  beggar  cre 
dentials  at  the  low  price  of  one  dollar  per  copy, 
with  earthquakes,  fires,  or  shipwrecks,  to  suit  cus 
tomers." 

Amidst  this  confusion  of  tongues,  I  take  another 
survey  of  my  visitant.  Ha  !  a  light  dawns  upon 
me.  That  shrewd,  old  face,  with  its  sharp,  wink 
ing  eyes,  is  no  stranger  to  me.  Pietro  Prugoni,  I 
have  seen  thee  before  !  Si,  Senor,  that  face  of 
thine  has  looked  at  me  over  a  dirty  white  neck 
cloth,  with  the  corners  of  that  cunning  mouth 
drawn  downwards,  and  those  small  eyes  turned 
up  in  sanctimonious  gravity,  while  thou  wast  offer 
ing  to  a  crowd  of  half-grown  boys  an  extempora- 
21 


242  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

neous  exhortation,  in  the  capacity  of  a  travelling 
preacher.  Have  I  not  seen  it  peering  out  from 
under  a  blanket,  as  that  of  a  poor  Penobscot  Indian, 
who  had  lost  the  use  of  his  hands  while  trapping  on 
the  Madawaska?  Is  it  not  the  face  of  the  forlorn 
father  of  six  small  children,  whom  the  "marcury 
doctors  "  had  u  pisened  "  and  crippled  ?  Did  it  not 
belong  to  that  down-east  unfortunate,  who  had 
been  out  to  the  "  Genesee  country,"  and  got  the 
"  fevern-nager,"  and  whose  hand  shook  so  pitifully 
when  held  out  to  receive  my  poor  gift  ?  The  same, 
under  all  disguises  —  Stephen  Leathers  of  Barring- 
ton  —  him  and  none  other  !  Let  me  conjure  him 
into  his  own  likeness. 

"  Well,  Stephen,  what  news  from  old  Barring- 
ton  ?" 

"  O,  well  I  thought  I  knew  ye,"  he  answers,  not 
the  least  disconcerted.  "  How  do  you  do,  and  how's 
your  folks  ?  All  well,  I  hope.  I  took  this  'ere  paper, 
you  see,  to  help  a  poor  furriner,  who  could  n't  make 
himself  understood  any  more  than  a  wild  goose.  I 
thought  I  'd  just  start  him  for'ard  a  little.  It  seemed 
a  marcy  to  do  it." 

Well  and  shiftily  answered,  thou  ragged  Proteus. 
One  cannot  be  angry  with  such  a  fellow.  I  will 
just  inquire  into  the  present  state  of  his  gospel  mis 
sion,  and  about  the  condition  of  his  tribe  on  the 
Penobscot ;  and  it  may  be  not  amiss  to  congratulate 
him  on  the  success  of  the  steam-doctors  in  sweating 
the  "  pisen  "  of  the  regular  faculty  out  of  him.  But 
he  evidently  has  no  wish  to  enter  into  idle  conver- 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  243 

sation.  Intent  upon  his  benevolent  errand,  he  is 
already  clattering  down  stairs.  Involuntarily  I 
glance  out  of  the  window,  just  in  season  to  catch 
a  single  glimpse  of  him  ere  he  is  swallowed  up  in 
the  mist. 

He  has  gone  j  and,  knave  as  he  is,  I  can  hardly 
help  exclaiming,  "  Luck  go  with  him  !  "  He  has 
broken  in  upon  the  sombre  train  of  my  thoughts, 
and  called  Up  before  me  pleasant  and  grateful  recol 
lections.  The  old  farm-house  nestling  in  its  valley  ; 
hills  stretching  off  to  the  south,  and  green  meadows 
to  the  east  ;  the  small  stream,  which  came  noisily 
down  its  ravine,  washing  the  old  garden  wall,  and 
softly  lapping  on  fallen  stones  and  mossy  roots  of 
beeches  and  hemlocks  ;  the  tall  sentinel  poplars  at 
the  gateway  ;  the  oak  forest,  sweeping  unbroken  to 
the  northern  horizon  ;  the  grass-grown  carriage  path, 
with  its  rude  and  crazy  bridge  ;  the  dear  old  land 
scape  of  my  boyhood  lies  outstretched  before  me 
like  a  daguerreotype  from  that  picture  within,  which 
I  have  borne  with  me  in  all  my  wanderings.  I  am 
a  boy  again ;  once  more  conscious  of  the  feeling, 
half  terror,  half  exultation,  with  which  I  used  to 
announce  the  approach  of  this  very  vagabond,  and 
his  "  kindred  after  the  flesh." 

The  advent  of  wandering  beggars,  or  "  old  strag 
glers,"  as  we  were  wont  to  call  them,  was  an  event 
of  no  ordinary  interest  in  the  generally  monotonous 
quietude  of  our  farm-life.  Many  of  them  were  well 
known  ;  they  had  their  periodical  revolutions  and 
transits  ;  we  could  calculate  them  like  eclipses  or 


244  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

new  moons.  Some  were  sturdy  knaves,  fat  and 
saucy  j  and,  whenever  they  ascertained  that  the 
"men-folks"  were  absent,  would  order  provisions 
and  cider  like  men  who  expected  to  pay  for  it,  seat 
ing  themselves  at  the  hearth  or  table  with  the  air  of 
FalstafF —  "  Shall  I  not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  own 
inn  ? "  Others,  poor,  pale,  patient,  like  Sterne's 
monk,  came  creeping  up  to  the  door,  hat  in  hand, 
standing  there  in  their  gray  wretchedness  with  a 
look  of  heart-break  and  forlornness,  which  was  never 
without  its  effect  on  our  juvenile  sensibilities.  At 
times,  however,  we  experienced  a  slight  revulsion 
of  feeling,  when  even  these  humblest  children  of 
sorrow  somewhat  petulantly  rejected  our  proffered 
bread  and  cheese,  and  demanded  instead  a  glass  of 
cider.  Whatever  the  temperance  society  might  in 
such  cases  have  done,  it  was  not  in  our  hearts  to 
refuse  the  poor  creatures  a  draught  of  their  favorite 
beverage  ;  and  was  n't  it  a  satisfaction  to  see  their 
sad,  melancholy  faces  light  up  as  we  handed  them 
the  full  pitcher,  and,  on  receiving  it  back  empty 
from  their  brown,  wrinkled  hands,  to  hear  them, 
half  breathless  from  their  long,  delicious  draught, 
thanking  us  for  the  favor,  as  "  dear,  good  chil 
dren  ! "  Not  unfrequently  these  wandering  tests 
of  our  benevolence  made  their  appearance  in  inter 
esting  groups  of  man,  woman  and  child,  picturesque 
in  their  squalidness,  and  manifesting  a  maudlin 
affection,  which  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
revellers  at  Poosie-Nansies,  —  immortal  in  the  can 
tata  of  Burns.  I  remember  some  who  were  evi- 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  245 

dently  the  victims  of  monomania,  haunted  and 
hunted  by  some  dark  thought,  possessed  by  a  fixed 
idea.  One,  a  black-eyed,  wild-haired  woman,  with 
a  whole  tragedy  of  sin,  shame,  and  suffering  written 
in  her  countenance,  used  often  to  visit  us,  warm 
herself  by  our  winter  fire,  and  supply  herself  with 
a  stock  of  cakes  and  cold  meat,  but  was  never 
known  to  answer  a  question  or  to  ask  one.  She 
never  smiled ;  the  cold,  stony  look  of  her  eye  never 
changed  ;  a  silent,  impassive  face,  frozen  rigid  by 
some  great  wrong  or  sin.  We  used  to  look  with 
awe  upon  the  "  still  woman,"  and  think  of  the 
demoniac  of  Scripture,  who  had  a  "dumb  spirit." 

One — (I  think  I  see  him  now,  grim,  gaunt,  and 
ghastly,  working  his  slow  way  up  to  our  door)  — 
used  to  gather  herbs  by  the  wayside,  and  call  him 
self  Doctor.  He  was  bearded  like  a  he-goat,  and 
used  to  counterfeit  lameness  ;  yet  when  he  supposed 
himself  alone,  would  travel  on  lustily  as  if  walking 
for  a  wager.  At  length,  as  if  in  punishment  of  his 
deceit,  he  met  with  an  accident  in  his  rambles,  and 
became  lame  in  earnest,  hobbling  ever  after  with 
difficulty  on  his  gnarled  crutches.  Another  used  to 
go  stooping,  like  Banyan's  pilgrim,  under  a  pack 
made  of  an  old  bed-sacking,  stuffed  out  into  most 
plethoric  dimensions,  tottering  on  a  pair  of  small 
meagre  legs,  and  peering  out  with  his  wild,  hairy 
face  from  under  his  burden  like  a  big-bodied  spider. 
That  "  Man  with  the  pack "  always  inspired  me 
with  awe  and  reverence.  Huge,  almost  sublime  in 
its  tense  rotundity —  the  father  of  all  packs  —  never 
21 


246  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

laid  aside  and  never  opened,  what  might  not  be 
within  it  ?  With  what  flesh-creeping  curiosity  I 
used  to  walk  round  about  it  at  a  safe  distance,  half 
expecting  to  see  its  striped  covering  stirred  by  the 
motions  of  a  mysterious  life,  or  that  some  evil 
monster  would  leap  out  of  it,  like  robbers  from  Ali 
Baba's  jars,  or  armed  men  from  the  Trojan  horse. 

Often,  in  the  gray  of  the  morning,  we  used  to  see 
one  or  more  of  these  "  gaberlunzie  men,"  pack  on 
shoulder  and  staff  in  hand,  emerging  from  the  barn 
or  other  outbuildings,  where  they  had  passed  the 
night.  I  was  once  sent  to  the  barn  to  fodder  the 
cattle  late  in  the  evening,  and  climbing  into  the 
mow  to  pitch  down  hay  for  that  purpose,  I  was 
startled  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  man  rising  up 
before  me,  just  discernible  in  the  dim  moonlight 
streaming  through  the  seams  of  the  boards.  I  made 
a  rapid  retreat  down  the  ladder ;  and  was  only  re 
assured  by  hearing  the  object  of  my  terror  calling 
after  me,  and  recognizing  his  voice  as  that  of  a 
harmless  old  pilgrim  whom  I  had  known  before. 
Our  farm-house  was  situated  in  a  lonely  valley,  half 
surrounded  with  woods,  with  no  neighbors  in  sight. 
One  dark,  cloudy  night,  when  our  parents  chanced 
to  be  absent,  we  were  sitting  with  our  aged  grand 
mother  in  the  fading  light  of  the  kitchen  fire, 
working  ourselves  into  a  very  satisfactory  state  of 
excitement  and  terror,  by  recounting  to  each  other 
all  the  dismal  stories  we  could  remember  of  ghosts, 
witches,  haunted  houses,  and  robbers,  when  we 
were  suddenly  startled  by  a  loud  rap  at  the  door. 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  247 

A  stripling  of  fourteen,  I  was  very  naturally  regarded 
as  the  head  of  the  household  ;  and  with  many  mis 
givings  I  advanced  to  the  door,  which  I  slowly 
opened,  holding  the  candle  tremulously  above  my 
head,  and  peering  out  into  the  darkness.  The  feeble 
glimmer  played  upon  the  apparition  of  a  gigantic 
horseman,  mounted  on  a  steed  of  a  size  worthy  of 
such  a  rider  • —  colossal,  motionless,  like  images  cut 
out  of  the  solid  night.  The  strange  visitant  gruffly 
saluted  me  ;  and,  after  making  several  ineffectual 
efforts  to  urge  his  horse  in  at  the  door,  dismounted, 
and  followed  me  into  the  room,  evidently  enjoying 
the  terror  which  his  huge  presence  excited.  An 
nouncing  himself  as  "  Dr.  Brown,  the  great  Indian 
doctor,"  he  drew  himself  up  before  the  fire,  stretched 
his  arms,  clenched  his  fists,  struck  his  broad  chest, 
and  invited  our  attention  to  what  he  called  his 
"mortal  frame."  He  demanded  in  succession  all 
kinds  of  intoxicating  liquors  ;  and,  on  being  assured 
that  we  had  none  to  give  him,  he  grew  angry, 
threatened  to  swallow  my  younger  brother  alive, 
and  seizing  me  by  the  hair  of  my  head,  as  the  angel 
did  the  prophet  at  Babylon,  he  led  me  about  from 
room  to  room.  After  an  ineffectual  search,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  mistook  a  jug  of  oil  for  one  of 
brandy,  and,  contrary  to  my  explanations  and  re 
monstrances,  insisted  upon  swallowing  a  portion  of 
its  contents,  he  released  me,  fell  to  crying  and  sob 
bing,  and  confessed  that  he  was  so  drunk  already 
that  his  horse  was  ashamed  of  him.  After  bemoan 
ing  and  pitying  himself  to  his  satisfaction,  he  wiped 


248  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

his  eyes,  sat  down  by  the  side  of  my  grandmother, 
giving  her  to  understand  that  he  was  very  much 
pleased  with  her  appearance  ;  adding,  that,  if  agree 
able  to  her,  he  should  like  the  privilege  of  paying 
his  addresses  to  her.  While  vainly  endeavoring  to 
make  the  excellent  old  lady  comprehend  his  very 
flattering  proposition,  he  was  interrupted  by  the 
return  of  my  father,  who,  at  once  understanding  the 
matter,  turned  him  out  of  doors  without  ceremony. 
On  one  occasion,  a  few  years  ago,  on  my  return 
from  the  field  at  evening,  I  was  told  that  a  foreigner 
had  asked  for  lodgings  during  the  night ;  but  that, 
influenced  by  his  dark,  repulsive  appearance,  my 
mother  had  very  reluctantly  refused  his  request. 
I  found  her  by  no  means  satisfied  with  her  decision. 
"  What  if  a  son  of  mine  was  in  a  strange  land  ?  " 
she  inquired,  self-reproachfully.  Greatly  to  her  re 
lief,  I  volunteered  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  wanderer, 
and,  taking  a  cross-path  over  the  fields,  soon  over 
took  him.  He  had  just  been  rejected  at  the  house 
of  our  nearest  neighbor,  and  was  standing  in  a  state 
of  dubious  perplexity  in  the  street.  His  looks  quite 
justified  my  mother's  suspicions.  He  was  an  olive- 
complexioned,  black-bearded  Italian,  with  an  eye 
like  a  live  coal  —  such  a  face  as  perchance  looks 
out  on  the  traveller  in  the  passes  of  the  Abruzzo  — 
one  of  those  bandit  visages  which  Salvator  has 
painted.  With  some  difficulty  I  gave  him  to  un 
derstand  my  errand,  when  he  overwhelmed  me 
with  thanks,  and  joyfully  followed  me  back.  He 
took  his  seat  with  us  at  the  supper  table  j  and  when 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  249 

we  were  all  seated  around  the  hearth  that  cold 
autumnal  evening,  he  told  us,  partly  by  words  and 
partly  by  gestures,  the  story  of  his  life  and  misfor 
tunes,  amused  us  with  descriptions  of  the  grape 
gatherings  and  festivals  of  his  sunny  clime,  edified 
my  mother  with  a  recipe  for  making  bread  of  chest 
nuts  ;  and  in  the  morning,  when,  after  breakfast, 
his  dark,  sullen  face  lighted  up,  and  his  fierce  eye 
moistened  with  grateful  emotion,  as  in  his  own  sil 
very  Tuscan  accent  he  poured  out  his  thanks,  we 
marvelled  at  the  fears  which  had  so  nearly  closed 
our  door  against  him  ;  and,  as  he  departed,  we  all 
felt  that  he  had  left  with  us  the  blessing  of  the  poor. 
It  was  not  often  that,  as  in  the  above  instance, 
my  mother's  prudence  got  the  better  of  her  charity. 
The  regular  "  old  stragglers "  regarded  her  as  an 
unfailing  friend  ;  and  the  sight  of  her  plain  cap  was 
to  them  an  assurance  of  forthcoming  creature  com 
forts.  There  was  indeed  a  tribe  of  lazy  strollers, 
having  their  place  of  rendezvous  in  the  town  of 
Barrington,  N.  H.,  whose  low  vices  had  placed  them 
beyond  even  the  pale  of  her  benevolence.  They 
were  not  unconscious  of  their  evil  reputation,  and 
experience  had  taught  them  the  necessity  of  con 
cealing,  under  well  contrived  disguises,  their  true 
character.  They  came  to  us  in  all  shapes,  and  with 
all  appearances  save  the  true  one,  with  most  mise 
rable  stories  of  mishap  and  sickness,  and  all  "  the 
ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to."  It  was  particularly 
vexatious  to  discover,  when  too  late,  that  our  sym 
pathies  and  charities  had  been  expended  upon  such 


250  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

graceless  vagabonds  as  the  "  Barrington  beggars." 
An  old  withered  hag,  known  by  the  appellation  of 
"  Hipping  Pat," — the  wise  woman  of  her  tribe  — 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  us,  with  her  hopeful 
grandson,  who  had  "a  gift  for  preaching,"  as  well 
as  for  many  other  things  not  exactly  compatible 
with  holy  orders.  He  sometimes  brought  with  him 
a  tame  crow,  a  shrewd,  knavish  looking  bird,  who, 
when  in  the  humor  for  it,  could  talk  like  Barnaby 
Rudge's  raven.  He  used  to  say,  he  could  "  do 
nothin'  at  exhortin'  without  a  white  haridkercher  on 
his  neck  and  money  in  his  pocket ;  "  a  fact  going 
far  to  confirm  the  opinions  of  the  Bishop  of  Exeter 
and  the  Puseyites  generally,  that  there  can  be  no 
priest  without  tithes  and  surplice. 

These  people  have  for  several  generations  lived 
distinct  from  the  great  mass  of  the  community,  like 
the  gipseys  of  Europe,  whom  in  many  respects  they 
closely  resemble.  They  have  the  same  settled 
aversion  to  labor,  and  the  same  disposition  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  fruits  of  the  industry  of  others. 
They  love  a  wild,  out-of-door  life,  sing  songs,  tell 
fortunes,  arid  have  an  instinctive  hatred  of  "  mis 
sionaries  and  cold  water." 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man  ;  "  and, 
according  to  my  view,  no  phase  of  our  common 
humanity  is  altogether  unworthy  of  investigation. 
Acting  upon  this  belief  two  or  three  summers  ago} 
when  making,  in  company  with  my  sister,  a  little 
excursion  into  the  hill  country  of  New  Hampshire, 
I  turned  my  horse's  head  towards  Barrington,  for 


THE    YANKEE    ZINCALI.  251 

the  purpose  of  seeing  these  semi-civilized  strollers 
in  their  own  home,  and  returning,  once  for  all,  their 
numerous  visits.  Taking  leave  of  our  hospitable 
cousins  in  old  Lee,  with  about  as  much  solemnity 
as  we  may  suppose  Major  Laing  parted  with  his 
friends,  when  he  set  out  in  search  of  desert-girdled 
Timbuctoo,  we  drove  several  miles  over  a  rough 
road,  passed  the  "  Devil's  Den  "  unmolested,  crossed 
a  fretful  little  streamlet,  noisily  working  its  way 
into  a  valley,  where  it  turned  a  lonely,  half-ruinous 
mill,  and  climbing  a  steep  hill  beyond,  saw  before 
us  a  wide,  sandy  level,  skirted  on  the  west  and 
north  by  low,  scraggy  hills,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  dwarf  pitch  pines.  In  the  centre  of  this 
desolate  region  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  small 
dwellings,  grouped  together  as  irregularly  as  a  Hot 
tentot  kraal.  Unfenced,  unguarded,  open  to  all 
comers  and  goers,  stood  that  city  of  the  beggars  — 
no  wall  or  paling  between  the  ragged  cabins,  to 
remind  one  of  the  jealous  distinctions  of  property. 
The  great  idea  of  its  founders  seemed  visible  in  its 
unappropriated  freedom.  Was  not  the  whole  round 
world  their  own,  and  should  they  haggle  about 
boundaries  and  title-deeds  ?  For  them,  on  distant 
plains,  ripened  golden  harvests ;  for  them,  in  far-off 
work-shops,  busy  hands  were  toiling  ;  for  them,  if 
they  had  but  the  grace  to  note  it,  the  broad  earth 
put  on  her  garniture  of  beauty,  and  over  them  hung 
the  silent  mystery  of  heaven  and  its  stars.  That 
comfortable  philosophy  which  modem  Transcen 
dentalism  has  but  dimly  shadowed  forth  —  that 


252  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

poetic  Agrarianism,  which  gives  all  to  each,  and 
each  to  all  —  is  the  real  life  of  this  city  of  Unwork. 
To  each  of  its  dingy  dwellers  might  be  not  unaptly 
applied  the  language  of  one,  who,  I  trust,  will  pardon 
me  for  quoting  her  beautiful  poem  in  this  connec 
tion  :  — 

"  Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  or  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine  ; 
Thou  art  wealthier  —  all  the  world  is  thine  !  " 

But,  look !  the  clouds  are  breaking.  "  Fair  weather 
cometh  out  of  the  north."  The  wind  has  blown 
away  the  mists ;  on  the  gilded  spire  of  John-street 
glimmers  a  beam  of  sunshine.  And  there  is  the  sky 
again,  hard,  blue,  and  cold  in  its  eternal  purity,  not 
a  whit  the  worse  for  the  storm.  In  the  beautiful 
Present,  the  Past  is  no  longer  needed.  Reverently 
and  gratefully  let  its  volume  be  laid  aside ;  and 
when  again  the  shadows  of  the  outward  world  fall 
upon  the  spirit,  may  I  not  lack  a  good  angel  to  re 
mind  me  of  its  solace,  even  if  he  comes  in  the  shape 
of  a  Barrington  beggar. 


HOME. 


BY    ISAAC    Me.  LELLAN. 


OFT  have  my  wayward  footsteps  chanc'd  to  roam, 
A  wandering  pilgrim,  far  away  from  home, 
By  Seine,  or  blue  Rhone's  gay  enamell'd  shores, 
Or  where  the  castled  Rhine  its  tribute  pours  ; 
Trod  the  bleak  wastes,  o'er  drifting  Alpine  snows, 
Caught  sunset's  flush  when  o'er  Mount  Blanc  it  glows ; 
Have  mused  o'er  Grecia's  templed  hills  and  shrines, 
Her  mournful  marbles,  flashing  thro'  the  vines ; 
Heard  Tiber's  song,  and  silver  Arno's  tale, 
Told  to  the  listening  gardens  of  her  vale ; 
Have  track'd  the  Nile  to  Cairo's  ancient  gate, 
Deplored,  at  Cheops,  the  Egyptian's  fate  ; 
Have  viewed  the  day,  o'er  Syrian  plains,  expire, 
And  with  the  Arab  shared  his  desert  fire. 
Mid  such  high  scenes,  the  minstrel's  heart  would  still, 
At  thought  of  home,  with  warm  emotions  thrill ; 
No  scene  so  bright,  no  landscape  seemed  so  grand 
As  the  fair  borders  of  his  native  land  ; 
To  yield  the  pilgrim's  staff,  not  loth  was  he, 
And  tread  once  more  the  rough  soil  of  the  Free ! 
22 


254  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Where'er  we  rove,  whate'er  betide  our  lot, 
Bright  burns  the  flickering  taper  of  our  Home, 
Above  life's  charing  tides,  that  golden  spot 
Shines  like  the  blessed  beacon  o'er  the  foam. 
Year  after  year  may  haply  intervene, 
Far  other  realms  their  winning  charms  may  spread, 
Still  shall  we  cling  to  each  familiar  scene, 
And  kind  old  friends,  the  absent  and  the  dead, 
O'er  recollection's  path  will  shed  a  glow 
To  cheer  the  darkest  mind  weigh'd  down  with  woe, 
To  charm  our  days  with  bright  seraphic  beams, 
And  gild  with  heavenly  flush  our  midnight  dreams ! 


CLERKS  AND  EMPLOYERS. 


BY   DANIEL   N.    HASKELL. 

THE  relations  sustained  by  clerks  to  their  em 
ployers  are  a  source  of  many  troubles,  and  occasion 
unpleasant  thoughts,  and  oftentimes  result  in 
mutual  and  reciprocal  hatred.  In  many  depart 
ments  of  business,  the  compensation  allowed  to 
clerks  is  so  small,  that  the  sons  of  wealthy  men 
have  a  monopoly  of  the  places,  which  operates 
unfavorably,  two  ways :  it  drives  away  a  large  and 
meritorious  class  of  young  men,  while  it  introduces 
another,  who,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case, 
cannot  take  so  active  an  interest,  as  those  whom 
want  and  necessity  urge  forward.  The  influence 
of  these  rich  clerks,  in  situations  where  little  or  no 
compensation  is  allowed,  is  very  pernicious,  in 
inducing  habits  of  extravagance,  inattention  to 
business,  and  of  substituting  the  swell  manners  and 
flash  appearance  of  the  roue,  for  the  gentlemanly 
bearing  and  manly  dignity  of  the  good  citizen. 

In  branches  of  trade  where  a  compensation  is 
allowed,  it  is  generally  too  small  for  the  interests 
of  both  parties.  Enlightened  selfishness  would 


256 


THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 


seem  to  dictate  a  reform  in  this  matter.  We  are 
proverbial  for  our  thrift,  and  have  a  character  for 
knowing  what  investments  will  produce  the  best 
dividends  ;  and  I  submit,  whether  an  investment, 
in  the  shape  of  increased  salaries,  would  not  exhibit 
as  large  returns  as  any  stock  known  to  the  board  of 
brokers. 

Let  any  merchant  reflect  how  large  a  portion  of 
the  details  of  his  business  is  in  the  hands  of  clerks, 
how  powerful  an  agency  they  exert  in  his  affairs, 
how  often  he  is  the  victim  of  their  negligence, 
incompetency,  or  dishonesty,  and  he  will  perceive 
the  great  necessity  for  care  in  the  selection  ;  and 
may  we  not  hope  a  careful  investigation  of  the  sub 
ject  will  lead  him  most  cheerfully  to  pay  ample 
remuneration  for  services  rendered.  Two  poorly 
paid,  dispirited  clerks  are  not  so  valuable  as  one 
who  takes  an  active  interest  in  his  employer's 
affairs,  and  goes  to  his  business  in  earnest. 

A  boy  whose  existence  is  an  experiment,  showing 
the  lowest  point  at  which  body  and  soul  can  be 
prevented  from  dissolving  their  painful  connection, 
is  as  far  from  being  the  living  intelligence  he  was 
created  for,  and  is  as  much  below  the  level  of  his 
race,  as  are  the  jaded  and  broken-spirited  animals, 
we  see  carted  about  in  caravan  cages,  below  their 
brethren  of  the  boundless  forest. 

The  best  help,  like  the  dearest  law,  is  the 
cheapest ;  and  it  will  always  be  found  the  truest 
policy  to  practise  the  inspired  precept,  "  the  laborer 
is  worthy  of  his  hire," 


CLERKS    AND    EMPLOYERS.  257 

There  is  a  strange  want  of  confidence  exhibited 
in  the  intercourse  between  merchants  and  their 
clerks.  Too  frequently  their  conversation  resem 
bles  what  may  be  termed  cross-examination.  Con 
fidence  begets  confidence.  No  man  has  so  much 
talent  and  power  as  to  be  above  learning  many 
important  points  of  intelligence,  respecting  both 
men  and  business,  from  his  young  men.  Each  of 
the  parties  moves  in  a  different  circle ;  and  the 
clerk,  from  the  nature  of  his  young  companions, 
has  many  opportunities  of  obtaining  valuable  infor 
mation  equal  to  that  which  his  master  enjoys. 

What  would  be  said  of  a  military  commander, 
and  what  would  be  his  success  and  fate,  did  he  not 
avail  himself  of  all  the  talent  and  diversity  of 
character  in  his  subordinate  officers  ?  A  mechanic 
is  careful  to  attend  to  the  suggestions  of  his  work 
men.  A  shipmaster  should  have  the  most  perfect 
confidence  in  his  mates  and  crew.  And  should  a 
merchant  lose  all  the  advantages  to  be  obtained 
from  an  active  exercise  of  all  the  talents  and  means 
of  information  his  clerks  possess  ? 

Another  evil,  attendant  upon  this  intercourse,  is 
the  want  of  interest  manifested  by  employers 
respecting  their  young  men,  during  the  time  they 
are  away  from  their  places  of  business.  In  a  very 
large  majority  of  cases,  employers  do  not  trouble 
themselves  about  this  matter ;  and  yet  who  does 
not  see  that  upon  this  point  depends,  in  a  great 
degree,  the  value  of  the  services  rendered  while  the 
clerk  is  on  duty. 

22* 


258  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

I  ask  clerks,  How  many  of  you  receive  any  indi 
cations  that  your  services  are  appreciated?  How 
many  of  you  have  ever  been  invited  to  meet  your 
employers  at  a  house  of  worship,  even  in  cases 
where  they  are  professedly  Christian  ?  I  ask,  again, 
how  many  of  you  are  requested,  even  once  a  year, 
to  visit  your  employers  at  their  dwellings  for  one 
evening  of  social  intercourse  ? 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  above  suggestions  will, 
by  many,  be  regarded  as  unworthy  serious  con 
sideration.  One  wise  saying  will,  in  their  estima 
tion,  explode  the  whole  train  of  thought,  and  they 
will  not  be  induced  to  make  trial  of  any  new  plan, 
fearing,  lest  "familiarity  should  breed  contempt." 

But,  until  brothers  and  sisters  cease  to  be  bound 
by  the  warmest  ties ;  till  intimacies  are  not  cher 
ished,  and  love  is  extinguished  ;  until  friendship  is 
unknown,  and  children  repay  their  fathers'  kindness 
and  their  mothers'  love  and  affection  with  con 
tempt;  —  then,  and  not  till  then,  will  it  be  admit 
ted  that  the  frank  and  friendly  intercourse  between 
master  and  clerk,  employers  and  employed,  at 
proper  times  and  under  judicious  restrictions,  will 
end  in  any  thing  but  increased  interest,  mutual 
respect,  and  manly  confidence. 

Another  evil,  which  is  more  prevalent  than  for 
merly,  is  the  false  hopes  often  held  out  to  young 
men  to  induce  a  sacrifice  of  present  good  upon  the 
promise  of  future  advancement,  —  an  advancement 
which  is  always  future  and  ideal.  What  greater 
crime  can  be  committed  against  society  than  to 


CLERKS    AND    EMPLOYERS.  259 

coolly  calculate  how  far  one  can  speculate  upon  the 
rising  hopes  of  a  young  man.  by  basely  holding 
before  him  a  delusion,  which,  when  exposed,  will 
send  him  forth  to  the  world  a  disappointed  man, 
the  victim  of  generous  confidence,  of  human  cu 
pidity,  and  the  foulest  wrongs. 

What  punishment  is  due  the  niggard,  who  sun 
ders  or  weakens  the  bonds  which  bind  man  to  his 
fellow-man  in  ties  stronger  than  aught  save  love 
and  affection  !  What  is  life  worth  when  honor  is 
gone  ?  And  who  shall  repair  the  ruin  to  that  mind, 
cheated  of  its  fondest  prospects,  and  allured  to 
sacrifice  its  time  in  vainly  chasing  a  bubble,  which 
bursts  ere  the  hand  could  grasp  its  emptiness ! 

Let  no  young  man  for  one  moment  imagine, 
however,  that  because  his  manhood  is  not  acknowl 
edged,  and  his  better  nature  and  nobler  impulses 
are  not  thus  appealed  to,  there  is,  on  his  part,  any 
relaxation  of  the  highest  moral  obligation  to  do 
every  thing  in  his  power  to  advance  the  interest  of 
his  employer. 

No  neglect  or  remissness  of  the  employer  can 
obliterate  his  claims  to  all  the  ability  and  force  of 
character  possessed  by  the  young  man.  His  duty 
is  none  the  less  plain,  because  his  life  and  enjoy 
ments  form  no  portion  of  the  thoughts,  and  engage 
not  the  attention,  of  the  man  who  claims  his  time 
and  talents. 

Two  wrongs  will  not  make  one  right.  And  the 
boy,  whose  daily  actions  and  every  movement  are 


260  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

regulated  by  any  such  narrow  and  grovelling  stand 
ard,  fails  alike  in  the  duty  he  owes  to  another  and 
to  himself. 

Should  negligence  and  heedlessness  become  a 
habit,  the  injury  to  the  employer  is  transient  and 
temporary  •  while  the  evils,  of  which  they  are  the 
prolific  parents,  will  follow  their  unfortunate  victim 
through  life,  and  prove  a  curse,  from  whose  wither 
ing  influence  he  will  never  be  disenthralled. 

The  lessons  of  the  past,  and  the  united  voices  of 
reason  and  revelation,  urge  the  young  man  forward 
to  his  duty  in  every  relation  of  life.  By  the  con 
stant  exercise  of  fidelity,  he  will  rise  superior  to  the 
obstacles  which  seem  to  arrest  his  progress,  and,  by 
serving  others,  he  will  confer  lasting  benefit  upon 
himself.  Enlightened  self-interest  will  press  him 
onward  in  the  path  which  duty  and  obligation  mark 
out ;  and  he  will  show  the  world,  — and  experience, 
himself,  —  the  wisdom  which  dictated  to  a  son  the 
wise  counsel, — 

"  To  thine  own  self  be  true  ; 

And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 


CHARLES   JAMESJ 


ON    THE    ANNIVERSARY    OF    HIS    BIRTH. 


BY    CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 


THOU  cam'st  —  what  pleasures  new  and  bright 

Thy  coming  gave  ! 
Thou  'rt  gone  —  and  every  young  delight 

Is  laid  in  thy  dark  grave  ! 


There  is  a  spot  —  't  is  holy  ground 

To  those  who  weep, 
Where,  hushed  beneath  each  lonely  mound, 

Death's  mouldering  victims  sleep. 

Friend,  sister,  brother,  there  are  laid, 

From  sorrows  free ; 
And  there  a  clay-cold  bed  is  made 

For  thee,  Sweet  Boy,  for  thee. 


*  This  poem,  written  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  has  not  been  printed 
with  the  author's  other  writings.  It  appears  in  this  volume  with  a 
striking  interest,  preceding  as  it  does  a  charming  little  home-picture 
(see  page  277,)  written  by  a  son  of  the  Poet,  bearing  the  name  of  his 
buried  brother. 


262  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Those  little  hands  thou'lt  raise  no  more 

To  meet  my  arms  ; 

Thou  'rt  gone  !  the  bitter  wind  passed  o'er, 
And  withered  all  thy  charms. 

Forever  gone  life's  active  spark, 

The  blood's  warm  thrill ; 
Thy  bright  blue  eyes  are  closed  and  dark, 
Thy  merry  laugh  is  still. 

I  've  sate  me  by  thy  cradle's  side, 

And  joyed  to  trace, 
Blind  fool !   with  all  a  father's  pride, 

Thy  future  earthly  race. 

Fancy  beheld  thee  good  and  wise, 

Honor's  proud  theme, 
Truth's  sturdy  prop,  Fame's  noble  prize  — 
But  O,  't  was  all  a  dream. 

There  came  an  hour  —  with  me  't  will  live 

Till  life  depart ; 
Time's  vaunted  skill  no  balm  can  give, 

Remembrance  wrings  my  heart. 

'Twas  when  I  watched,  with  curdling  blood, 
Each  stifled  breath ; 

'T  was  when  on  that  pale  forehead  stood 
The  boding  damp  of  death. 

'T  was  when  the  tyrant's  grasp,  so  cold, 

Chilled  life's  young  tide  ; 

'T  was  when  those  eyes  that  last  glance  rolled  — 
'T  was  when  my  poor  boy  died. 


CHARLES    JAMES.  263 

The  sigh  will  rise,  in  manhood's  spite, 

The  tears  will  roll ; 

Grief  round  me  draws  her  mental  night, 
And  desolates  my  soul. 

Yet  let  my  stricken  heart  be  taught 

That  thou  'rt  in  peace  ; 
That  lesson,  with  true  wisdom  fraught, 

Should  bid  each  anguish  cease. 

If  there 's  a  refuge-place  at  last, 

For  man  t'  enjoy, 
There  may  I  meet,  earth's  trials  past, 

My  Charles,  my  cherub  boy. 


EARLY  DAYS  OF  JOHN  LEDYARD. 


BY    JARED   SPARKS. 


JOHN  LEDYARD,  the  traveller,  was  the  third  of 
that  name  in  lineal  descent.  His  mother,  who  was 
the  daughter  of  Robert  Hempsted,  of  Southold,  has 
been  described  as  a  lady  of  many  excellences  of 
mind  and  character,  beautiful  in  person,  well  in 
formed,  resolute,  generous,  amiable,  kind,  and, 
above  all,  eminent  for  piety  and  the  religious  vir 
tues.  Such  a  mother  is  the  best  gift  of  Heaven  to 
a  family  of  helpless  young  children.  In  the  present 
instance,  all  her  courage  and  all  her  strength  of 
character  were  necessary,  to  carry  her  through  the 
duties  and  trials  which  devolved  upon  her.  The 
small  estate,  which  had  belonged  to  her  husband  in 
Groton,  was,  by  some  strange  neglect  of  her  friends, 
or  criminal  fraud  never  yet  explained,  taken  from 
her  soon  after  his  death.  During  a  visit  to  Long 
Island,  the  deed,  which  she  had  left  with  a  confi 
dential  person,  disappeared.  As  this  deed  was  the 
only  evidence  of  her  title  to  the  property,  and  her 
claim  could  not  be  substantiated  without  it,  the 
whole  reverted  to  its  former  owner,  her  husband's 


EARLY    DAYS    OF    JOHN    LEDYARD.  265 

father,  who  was  still  living.  The  particulars  of 
this  transaction  are  not  now  known,  nor  is  it  neces 
sary  to  inquire  into  them.  It  is  enough  to  state 
the  fact  that  such  an  event  occurred,  and  that  the 
widowed  mother  with  four  infant  children  was  thus 
thrown  destitute  upon  the  world.  In  this  condition 
she  and  her  children  repaired  to  the  house  of  her 
father  in  Southold,  where  they  found  protection  and 
support.  The  estate  at  Groton  afterwards  fell  into 
the  hands  of  Colonel  William  Ledyard. 

It  may  be  supposed  that  misfortune  did  not 
weaken  her  parental  solicitude,  nor  make  her 
neglectful  of  her  high  trust.  The  education  of  her 
children  was  the  absorbing  object  of  her  thoughts 
and  exertions.  Her  eldest  son  was  now  of  an  age 
to  receive  impressions,  that  would  become  deeply 
wrought  into  his  mind,  and  give  a  decided  bias 
to  his  future  character.  In  the  marked  features 
of  his  eventful  life,  eccentric  and  extraordinary  as 
it  was,  full  of  temptations,  crosses,  and  sufferings, 
may  often  be  traced  lineaments  of  virtues,  and  good 
impulses,  justly  referred  to  such  a  source,  to  the 
early  cares  and  counsels  of  a  judicious,  sensible, 
and  pious  mother.  Nor  were  these  counsels  scat 
tered  in  a  vacant  mind,  nor  these  cares  wasted  on  a 
cold  heart ;  in  his  severest  disappointments  and 
privations,  in  whatever  clime  or  among  whatever 
people,  whether  contending  with  the  fierce  snows 
of  Siberia  or  the  burning  sands  of  Africa,  the  image 
of  his  mother  always  came  with  a  beam  of  joy  to 
his  soul,  and  was  cherished  there  with  delight. 
23 


266  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Such  of  his  letters  to  her  as  have  been  preserved 
are  written  with  a  tenderness  of  filial  affection,  that 
could  flow  only  from  an  acute  sensibility  and  a 
good  heart. 

A  few  years  after  leaving  Groton,  and  settling  at 
Southold,  Mrs.  Ledyard  was  married  to  a  second 
husband,  Dr.  Moore,  of  the  latter  place.  At  this 
time  her  son  John  was  taken  into  the  family  of  his 
grandfather  at  Hartford,  who,  from  that  period, 
seems  to  have  considered  him  as  wholly  under  his 
charge.  Tradition  tells  of  peculiarities  in  his  man 
ners  and  habits  at  this  early  age,  of  acts  indicating 
the  bent  of  his  genius,  and  the  romantic  disposition 
that  gave  celebrity  to  his  after  life.  But  no  record 
of  his  schoolboy  adventures  has  come  down  to  us, 
and  we  are  left  to  conjecture  in  what  manner  the 
wild  spirits  of  a  youth  like  his  would  exhibit  them 
selves.  He  attended  the  grammar  school  in  Hart 
ford,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  with  commendable 
proficiency,  since  he  was  at  first  designed  for  the 
profession  of  the  law.  Several  months  were  passed 
by  him  as  a  student  in  the  office  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Seymour,  a  respectable  lawyer  of  that  place,  who 
had  married  his  aunt. 

Meantime  his  grandfather  died,  and  Mr.  Seymour 
became  his  guardian,  and  took  him  to  his  own 
house.  Whether  Ledyard  turned  his  thoughts  to 
the  law  by  his  voluntary  choice,  or  by  the  advice 
and  wishes  of  his  friends,  who  desired  to  quiet  his 
temper,  by  fixing  him  in  some  settled  pursuit,  is 
not  related  j  most  probably  the  latter,  for  it  was 


EARLY    DAYS    OF    JOHN    LEDYARD.  267 

soon  manifest,  that  neither  the  profound  wisdom, 
the  abstruse  learning,  nor  the  golden  promises  of 
the  law,  had  any  charms  for  him.  It  was  decided 
without  reluctance  on  his  part,  therefore,  that  he 
should  leave  the  path,  which  he  had  found  so  intri 
cate,  and  in  which  he  had  made  so  little  progress, 
and  enter  upon  one  more  congenial  to  his  inclina 
tion,  and  presenting  objects  more  attractive  to  his 
taste  and  fancy. 

Here  was  a  difficult  point  to  be  determined.  The 
pursuit,  which  would  accord  best  with  the  propen 
sities,  temperament,  and  wishes  of  John  Ledyard, 
and  best  promote  his  future  usefulness  and  success, 
was  a  thing  not  to  be  decided,  even  at  that  time  of 
his  life,  by  the  common  rules  of  judging  in  such 
cases  ;  it  was  a  preliminary,  which  no  one  probably 
would  have  been  more  perplexed  than  himself  to 
establish.  Never  was  he  accustomed  to  look  for 
ward  with  unwavering  predilections,  to  prepare  for 
contingencies,  or  to  mark  out  a  course  from  which 
he  would  not  stray.  To  be  seeking  some  distant 
object,  imposing  and  attractive  in  his  own  concep 
tions,  and  to  move  towards  it  on  the  tide  of  circum 
stances,  through  perils  and  difficulties,  was  among 
the  chief  pleasures  of  his  existence.  On  enterprises, 
in  which  no  obstacles  were  to  be  encountered,  no 
chances  to  be  run,  no  disappointments  to  be  appre 
hended,  no  rewards  of  hazardous  adventure  to  be 
looked  for,  he  bestowed  not  a  thought ;  but  let  a 
project  be  started,  thickly  beset  with  dangers,  and 
promising  success  only  through  toils  and  sufferings, 


268  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

deeds  of  courage,  and  the  resolute  efforts  of  an 
untiring  spirit,  and  not  a  man  would  grasp  at  it  so 
eagerly,  or  pursue  it  with  so  much  intenseness  of 
purpose.  The  wholesome  maxim  of  providing  for 
the  morrow  rarely  found  a  place  in  his  ethics  or  his 
practice ;  and  as  he  never  allowed  himself  to  anti 
cipate  misfortunes,  so  he  never  took  any  pains  to 
guard  against  them. 

He  was  now  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  with  very 
narrow  means,  few  friends,  and  no  definite  pros 
pects.  In  this  state  of  his  affairs,  as  it  was  neces 
sary  for  something  to  be  done,  he  was  compelled  to 
look  around  him,  arid  for  a  moment  to  exercise  that 
foresight,  which  the  tenor  of  his  life  proves  him  to 
have  been  so  reluctant  on  most  occasions  to  call  to 
his  aid.  And,  after  all,  he  was  more  indebted  to 
accident,  than  to  his  own  deliberations,  for  the 
immediate  events  that  awaited  him.  Dr.  Wheelock, 
the  amiable  and  pious  founder  of  Dartmouth  College, 
had  been  the  intimate  friend  of  his  grandfather; 
and  prompted  by  the  remembrance  of  this  tie,  he 
invited  Ledyard  to  enter  his  institution,  recently 
established  at  Hanover,  New  Hampshire,  amidst 
the  forests  on  the  banks  of  the  Connecticut  river. 
This  offer  was  accepted,  and  in  the  spring  of 
1772,  he  took  up  his  residence  at  this  new  seat 
of  learning,  with  the  apparent  intention  of  quali 
fying  himself  to  become  a  missionary  among  the 
Indians. 

His  mother's  wishes  and  advice  had  probably 
much  influence  in  guiding  him  to  this  resolution. 


EARLY  DAYS  OF  JOHN  LEDYARD.        269 

In  accordance  with  the  religious  spirit  of  that  day, 
she  felt  a  strong  compassion  for  the  deplorable  state 
of  the  Indians,  and  it  was  among  her  earliest  and 
fondest  hopes  of  this  her  favorite  son,  that  he  would 
be  educated  as  a  missionary,  and  become  an  approved 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence  to  bring 
these  degraded  and  suffering  heathen  to  a  know 
ledge  of  a  pure  religion,  and  the  blessings  of  civil 
ized  life.  When  she  saw  this  door  opened  for  the 
realizing  of  her  hopes,  and  her  son  placed  under  the 
charge  of  the  most  eminent  laborer  of  his  day  in  the 
cause  of  the  Indians,  her  joy  was  complete. 

Few  memorials  remain  of  his  college  life.  The 
whole  time  of  his  residence  at  Dartmouth  was  not 
more  than  one  year,  and  during  that  period  he  was 
absent  three  months  and  a  half,  rambling  among 
the  Indians.  A  classmate  still  living  recollects,  that 
he  had  then  some  amusing  singularities,  was  cheer 
ful  and  gay  in  conversation,  winning  in  his  address, 
and  a  favorite  with  his  fellow-students.  His  jour 
ney  from  Hartford  to  Hanover  was  performed  in  a 
sulky,  the  first  vehicle  of  the  kind  that  had  ever 
been  seen  on  Dartmouth  plain;  and  it  attracted 
curiosity  not  more  from  this  circumstance,  than 
from  the  odd  appearance  of  the  equipage.  Both 
the  horse  and  the  sulky  gave  evident  tokens  of 
having  known  better  days  ;  and  the  dress  of  their 
owner  was  peculiar,  bidding  equal  defiance  to  sym 
metry  of  proportions  and  the  fashion  of  the  times. 
In  addition  to  the  traveller's  own  weight,  this 
ancient  vehicle  was  burdened  with  a  quantity  of 
23* 


270  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

calico  for  curtains,  and  other  articles  to  assist  in 
theatrical  exhibitions,  of  which  he  was  very  fond. 
Prom  the  character  of  this  outfit,  we  may  conclude 
that  he  did  not  intend  time  should  pass  on  heavy 
wings  at  Dartmouth. 

Considering  the  newness  of  the  country,  the  want 
of  bridges,  and  the  bad  state  of  the  roads,  this  jaunt 
in  a  crazy  sulky  was  thought  to  indicate  no  feeble 
spirit  of  enterprise.  The  journey  might  have  been 
performed  with  much  more  ease  and  expedition  on 
horseback,  but  in  that  case  his  theatrical  apparatus 
must  have  been  left  behind. 

As  a  scholar  at  college  he  was  respectable,  but 
not  over-diligent.  He  acquired  knowledge  with 
facility,  and  could  make  quick  progress  when  he 
chose ;  but  he  was  impatient  under  discipline,  and 
thought  nothing  more  irksome  than  to  go  by  com 
pulsion  to  a  certain  place  at  certain  times,  and  tread 
from  day  to  day  the  same  dull  circle  of  the  chapel, 
the  recitation  room,  the  commons  hall,  and  the 
study.  It  is  not  affirmed,  that  he  ever  ventured  to 
set  up  any  direct  hostility  to  the  powers  that  ruled, 
but  he  sometimes  demeaned  himself  in  a  manner, 
that  must  take  from  him  the  praise  of  a  shining 
example  of  willing  subordination.  In  those  primi 
tive  times,  the  tones  of  a  bell  had  not  been  heard 
in  the  forests  of  Dartmouth,  and  the  students  were 
called  together  by  the  sound  of  a  conch-shell,  which 
was  blown  in  turn  by  the  freshmen.  Ledyard  was 
indignant  at  being  summoned  to  this  duty,  and  it 
was  his  custom  to  perform  it  with  a  reluctance  and 


EARLY    DAYS    OF    JOHN    LEDYARD.  271 

in  a  manner  corresponding  to  his  sense  of  the 
degradation. 

The  scenic  materials,  brought  with  so  much  pains 
from  Hartford,  were  not  suffered  to  lie  useless.  The 
calico  was  manufactured  into  curtains,  a  stage  was 
fitted  up,  and  plays  were  acted,  in  which  our  hero 
personated  the  chief  characters.  Calo  was  among 
the  tragedies  brought  out  upon  his  boards,  and  in 
this  he  acted  the  part  of  old  Syphax,  wearing  a  long 
gray  beard,  and  a  dress  suited  to  his  notion  of  the 
costume  of  a  Numidian  prince.  His  tragedies  were 
doubtless  comedies  to  the  audience,  but  they  all 
answered  his  purpose  of  amusement,  and  of  intro 
ducing  a  little  variety  into  the  sober  tenor  of  a 
student's  life.  At  this  'period  he  was  much  addicted 
to  reading  plays,  and  his  passion  for  the  drama 
probably  stole  away  many  hours,  that  might  have 
been  more  profitably  employed  iri  preparing  to 
exhibit  himself  before  his  tutors. 

He  had  not  been  quite  four  months  in  college, 
when  he  suddenly  disappeared  without  previous 
notice  to  his  comrades,  and  apparently  without 
permission  from  the  president.  The  full  extent  of 
his  travels  during  his  absence  cannot  now  be  known, 
but  he  is  understood  to  have  wandered  to  the  bor 
ders  of  Canada,  and  among  the  Six  Nations.  It  is 
certain  that  he  acquired  in  this  excursion  a  knowl 
edge  of  Indian  manners  and  Indian  language,  which 
was  afterwards  of  essential  service  to  him  in  his 
intercourse  with  savages  in  various  parts  of  the 
world.  His  main  object,  probably,  was  to  take  a 


272  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

cursory  survey  of  the  missionary  ground,  which  he 
was  contemplating  as  the  theatre  of  his  future 
career ;  and,  judging  from  what  followed,  we  may 
suppose  that  this  foretaste  put  an  end  to  all  his 
anticipations.  Nothing  more  is  heard  of  his  mis 
sionary  projects,  although  it  is  not  clear  at  what 
time  he  absolutely  abandoned  them.  When  three 
months  and  a  half  had  expired,  he  returned  to 
college  and  resumed  his  studies. 

If  his  dramatic  performances  were  not  revived,  as 
it  would  seem  they  were  not,  his  erratic  spirit  did 
not  sink  into  a  lethargy  for  want  of  expedients  to 
keep  it  alive.  In  mid-winter,  when  the  ground  was 
covered  with  deep  snow,  Ledyard  collected  a  party, 
whom  he  persuaded  to  accompany  him  to  the  sum 
mit  of  a  neighboring  mountain,  and  there  pass  the 
night.  Dr.  Wheelock  consented  to  the  project,  as 
his  heart  was  bent  on  training  up  the  young  men 
to  be  missionaries  among  the  Indians,  and  he  was 
willing  they  should  become  inured  to  hardships,  to 
which  a  life  among  savages  would  frequently  expose 
them.  The  projector  of  the  expedition  took  the 
lead  of  his  volunteers,  and  conducted  them  by  a 
pathless  route  through  the  thickets  of  a  swamp  and 
forests,  till  they  reached  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
just  in  time  to  kindle  a  fire,  and  arrange  their 
encampment  on  the  snow  before  it  was  dark.  The 
night,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  dreary  and  sleepless 
to  most  of  the  party,  and  few  were  they  who  did 
not  greet  the  dawn  with  gladness.  Their  leader 
was  alert,  prompt  at  his  duty,  and  pleased  with  his 


EARLY    DAYS    OF    JOHN    LEDYARD.  273 

success.  The  next  day,  they  returned  home,  all 
perfectly  satisfied,  unless  it  were  Ledyard,  with  this 
single  experiment  of  their  hardihood,  without  being 
disposed  to  make  another  similar  trial. 

After  abandoning  his  missionary  schemes,  he 
began  to  grow  weary  of  college,  and  the  more  so, 
probably,  as  his  unsettled  habits  now  and  then 
drew  from  the  president  a  salutary  admonition  on 
the  importance  of  a  right  use  of  time,  and  a  regard 
for  the  regulations  of  the  establishment.  Such 
hints  he  conceived  to  be  an  indignity,  and  fancied 
himself  ill  treated.  That  there  was  value  in  rules 
of  order  and  discipline  he  did  not  pretend  to  deny, 
but  seemed  at  a  loss  to  imagine  why  they  should 
apply  to  him.  That  the  whole  subject  might  be 
put  at  rest,  without  involving  any  puzzling  questions 
of  casuistry,  he  resolved  to  escape. 

On  the  margin  of  the  Connecticut  river,  which 
runs  near  the  college,  stood  many  majestic  forest 
trees,  nourished  by  a  rich  soil.  One  of  these  Led 
yard  contrived  to  cut  down.  He  then  set  himself 
at  work  to  fashion  its  trunk  into  a  canoe,  and  in 
this  labor  he  was  assisted  by  some  of  his  fellow- 
students.  As  the  canoe  was  fifty  feet  long  and 
three  wide,  and  was  to  be  dug  out  and  constructed 
by  these  unskilful  workmen,  the  task  was  not  a 
trifling  one,  nor  such  as  could  be  speedily  executed. 
Operations  were  carried  on  with  spirit,  however,  till 
Ledyard  wounded  himself  with  an  axe,  and  was 
disabled  for  several  days.  When  recovered,  he 
applied  himself  anew  to  his  work  ;  the  canoe  was 


274  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

finished,  launched  into  the  stream,  and,  by  the 
further  aid  of  his  companions,  equipped  and  pre 
pared  for  a  voyage.  His  wishes  were  now  at  their 
consummation,  and,  bidding  adieu  to  these  haunts 
of  the  Muses,  where  he  had  gained  a  dubious  fame, 
he  set  off  alone,  with  a  light  heart,  to  explore  a 
river,  with  the  navigation  of  which  he  had  not  the 
slightest  acquaintance.  The  distance  to  Hartford 
was  not  less  than  one  hundred  and  forty  miles, 
much  of  the  way  was  through  a  wilderness,  and  in 
several  places  there  were  dangerous  falls  and  rapids. 
With  a  bearskin  for  a  covering,  and  his  canoe 
well  stocked  with  provisions,  he  yielded  himself  to 
the  current,  and  floated  leisurely  down  the  stream, 
seldom  using  his  paddle,  and  stopping  only  in  the 
night  for  sleep.  He  told  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  Paris, 
fourteen  years  afterwards,  that  he  took  only  two 
books  with  him,  a  Greek  Testament  and  Ovid,  one 
of  which  he  was  deeply  engaged  in  reading  when 
his  canoe  approached  Bellow's  Falls,  where  he  was 
suddenly  roused  by  the  noise  of  the  waters  rushing 
among  the  rocks  through  the  narrow  passage.  The 
danger  was  imminent,  as  no  boat  could  go  down 
that  fall  without  being  instantly  dashed  in  pieces. 
With  difficulty  he  gained  the  shore  in  time  to 
escape  such  a  catastrophe,  and  through  the  kind 
assistance  of  the  people  in  the  neighborhood,  who 
were  astonished  at  the  novelty  of  such  a  voyage 
down  the  Connecticut,  his  canoe  was  drawn  by 
oxen  around  the  fall,  and  committed  again  to  the 
water  below.  From  that  time,  till  he  arrived  at 


EARLY    DAYS    OF    JOHN    LEDYARD.  275 

his  place  of  destination,  we  hear  of  no  accident, 
although  he  was  carried  through  several  dangerous 
passes  in  the  river. 

On  a  bright  spring  morning,  just  as  the  sun  was 
rising,  some  of  Mr.  Seymour's  family  were  standing 
near  his  house  on  the  high  bank  of  the  small  river, 
that  runs  through  the  city  of  Hartford,  and  empties 
itself  into  the  Connecticut  river,  when  they  espied 
at  some  distance  an  object  of  unusual  appearance 
moving  slowly  up  the  stream.  Others  were  at 
tracted  by  the  singularity  of  the  sight,  and  all  were 
conjecturing  what  it  could  be,  till  its  questionable 
shape  assumed  the  true  and  obvious  form  of  a 
canoe  ;  but  by  what  impulse  it  was  moved  forward 
none  could  determine.  Something  was  seen  in  the 
stern,  but  apparently  without  life  or  motion.  At 
length  the  canoe  touched  the  shore  directly  in  front 
of  the  house ;  a  person  sprang  from  the  stern  to  a 
rock  in  the  edge  of  the  water,  threw  off  a  bearskin 
in  which  he  had  been  enveloped,  and  behold  John 
Ledyard,  in  the  presence  of  his  uncle  and  connec 
tions,  who  were  filled  with  wonder  at  this  sudden 
apparition ;  for  they  had  received  no  intelligence  of 
his  intention  to  leave  Dartmouth,  but  supposed  him 
still  there  diligently  pursuing  his  studies,  and  fitting 
himself  to  be  a  missionary  among  the  Indians. 

However  unimportant  this  whimsical  adventure 
may  have  been  in  its  results,  or  even  its  objects,  it 
was  one  of  no  ordinary  peril,  and  illustrated  in  a 
forcible  manner  the  character  of  the  navigator.  The 
voyage  was  performed  in  the  last  part  of  April  or  first 


276  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

of  May,  and  of  course  the  river  was  raised  by  the 
recent  melting  of  the  snow  on  the  mountains. 
This  circumstance  probably  rendered  the  rapids  less 
dangerous,  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether  there 
are  many  persons  at  the  present  day,  who  would 
willingly  run  the  same  hazard,  even  if  guided  by  a 
pilot  skilled  in  the  navigation  of  the  river. 

We  cannot  look  back  to  Ledyard,  thus  launching 
himself  alone  in  so  frail  a  bark  upon  the  waters  of 
a  river  wholly  unknown  to  him,  without  being 
reminded  of  the  only  similar  occurrence,  which  has 
been  recorded,  —  the  voyage  down  the  River  Niger 
by  Mungo  Park,  a  name  standing  at  the  very  head 
of  those  most  renowned  for  romantic  and  lofty 
enterprise.  The  melancholy  fate,  it  is  true,  by 
which  he  was  soon  arrested  in  his  noble  career, 
adds  greatly  to  the  interest  of  his  situation  when 
pushing  from  the  shore  his  little  boat  Joliba,  and 
causes  us  to  read  his  last  affecting  letter  to  his  wife 
with  emotions  of  sympathy  more  intense,  if  possible, 
than  would  be  felt  if  the  tragical  issue  were  not 
already  known.  In  many  points  of  character  there 
was  a  strong  resemblance  between  these  two  dis 
tinguished  travellers,  and  they  both  perished,  — 
martyrs  in  the  same  cause,  attempting  to  explore 
the  hidden  regions  of  Africa. 


MY   LITTLE   DAUGHTER'S   SHOES. 


BY    CHARLES    JAMES    SPRAGUE. 


Two  little,  rough-worn,  stubbed  shoes, 

A  plump,  well-trodden  pair ; 
With  striped  stockings  thrust  within, 

Lie  just  beside  my  chair. 

* 

Of  veiy  homely  fabric  they, 

A  hole  is  in  each  toe, 
They  might  have  cost,  when  they  were  new, 

Some  fifty  cents  or  so. 

And  yet,  this  little  worn-out  pair 

Is  richer  far  to  me 
Than  all  the  jewelled  sandals  are 

Of  Eastern  luxury. 

This  mottled  leather,  cracked  with  use, 

Is  satin  in  my  sight ; 
These  little  tarnished  buttons  shine 

With  all  a  diamond's  light. 
24 


278  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Search  through  the  wardrobe  of  the  world ! 

You  shall  not  find  me  there, 
So  rarely  made,  so  richly  wrought, 

So  glorious  a  pair. 

And  why  ?     Because  they  tell  of  her, 

Now  sound  asleep  above, 
Whose  form  is  moving  beauty,  and 

Whose  heart  is  beating  love. 

They  tell  me  of  her  merry  laugh ; 

Her  rich,  whole-hearted  glee  ; 
Her  gentleness,  her  innocence, 

And  infant  purity. 

They  tell  me  that  her  wavering  steps 

Will  long  demand  my  aid ; 
For  the  old  road  of  human  life 

Is  very  roughly  laid. 

High  hills  and  swift  descents  abound ; 

And,  on  so  rude  a  way, 
Feet  that  can  wear  these  coverings 

Would  surely  go  astray. 

Sweet  little  girl !  be  mine  the  task 

Thy  feeble  steps  to  tend  ! 
To  be  thy  guide,  thy  counsellor, 

Thy  playmate  and  thy  friend  ! 

And  when  my  steps  shall  faltering  grow, 
And  thine  be  firm  and  strong, 

Thy  strength  shall  lead  my  tottering  age 
In  cheerful  peace  along  ! 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  YOUNG  SAILOR. 


BY    RICHARD    H.    DANA,    JR. 

THE  fourteenth  of  August  was  the  day  fixed 
upon  for  the  sailing  of  the  brig  Pilgrim,  on  her 
voyage  from  Boston  round  Cape  Horn,  to  the  west 
ern  coast  of  North  America.  As  she  was  to  get 
under  weigh  early  in  the  afternoon,  I  made  my  ap 
pearance  on  board  at  twelve  o'clock,  in  full  sea-rig, 
and  with  my  chest,  containing  an  outfit  for  a  two 
or  three  years'  voyage,  which  I  had  undertaken 
from  a  determination  to  cure,  if  possible,  by  an 
entire  change  of  life,  and  by  a  long  absence  from 
books  and  study,  a  weakness  of  the  eyes,  which 
had  obliged  me  to  give  up  my  pursuits,  and  which 
no  medical  aid  seemed  likely  to  cure. 

The  change  from  the  tight  dress  coat,  silk  cap 
and  kid  gloves  of  an  undergraduate  at  Cambridge, 
to  the  loose  duck  trowsers,  checked  shirt  and  tar 
paulin  hat  of  a  sailor,  though  somewhat  of  a  trans 
formation,  was  soon  made,  and  I  supposed  that  I 
should  pass  very  well  for  a  Jack  Tar.  But  it  is 
impossible  to  deceive  the  practised  eye  in  these 
matters  ;  and  while  I  supposed  myself  to  be  look- 


280  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

ing  as  salt  as  Neptune  himself,  I  was,  no  doubt, 
known  for  a  landsman  by  every  one  on  board  as 
soon  as  I  hove  in  sight.  A  sailor  has  a  peculiar  cut 
to  his  clothes,  and  a  way  of  wearing  them  which  a 
green  hand  can  never  get.  The  trousers,  tight 
round  the  hips,  and  thence  hanging  long  and  loose 
round  the  feet,  a  superabundance  of  checked  shirt, 
a  low-crowned,  well  varnished  black  hat,  worn  on 
the  back  of  the  head,  with  half  a  fathom  of  black 
ribbon  hanging  over  the  left  eye,  and  a  peculiar  tie 
to  the  black  silk  neckerchief,  with  sundry  other 
minutiae,  are  signs,  the  want  of  which  betray  the 
beginner  at  once.  Beside  the  points  in  my  dress 
which  were  out  of  the  way,  doubtless  my  com 
plexion  and  hands  were  enough  to  distinguish  me 
from  the  regular  salt,  who,  with  a  sunburnt  cheek, 
wide  step,  and  rolling  gait,  swings  his  bronzed  and 
toughened  hands  athwart-ships  half  open,  as  though 
just  ready  to  grasp  a  rope. 

"  With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head,"  I 
joined  the  crew,  and  we  hauled  out  into  the  stream, 
and  came  to  anchor  for  the  night.  The  next  day 
we  were  employed  in  preparations  for  sea,  reeving 
studding-sail  gear,  crossing  royal  yards,  putting  on 
chafing  gear,  and  taking  on  board  our  powder.  On 
the  following  night,  I  stood  my  first  watch.  I  re 
mained  awake  nearly  all  the  first  part  of  the  night, 
from  fear  that  I  might  not  hear  when  I  was  called  ; 
and  when  I  went  on  deck,  so  great  were  my  ideas 
of  the  importance  of  my  trust,  that  I  walked  regu 
larly  fore  and  aft  the  whole  length  of  the  vessel, 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A  YOUNG  SAILOR.  281 

looking  out  over  the  bows  and  taffrail  at  each  turn, 
and  was  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  coolness  of  the 
old  salt,  whom  I  called  to  take  my  place,  in  stow 
ing  himself  snugly  away  under  the  long-boat  for  a 
nap.  That  was  a  sufficient  lookout,  he  thought, 
for  a  fine  night,  at  anchor  in  a  safe  harbor. 

The  next  morning  was  Saturday,  and  a  breeze 
having  sprung  up  from  the  southward,  we  took  a 
pilot  on  board,  hove  up  our  anchor,  and  began  beat 
ing  down  the  bay.  I  took  leave  of  those  of  my 
friends  who  came  to  see  me  off,  and  had  barely 
opportunity  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  city,  and  well- 
known  objects,  as  no  time  is  allowed  on  board  ship 
for  sentiment.  As  we  drew  down  into  the  lower 
harbor,  we  found  the  wind  ahead  in  the  bay,  and 
were  obliged  to  come  to  anchor  in  the  roads.  We 
remained  there  through  the  day  and  a  part  of  the 
night.  My  watch  began  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night, 
and  I  received  orders  to  call  the  captain  if  the  wind 
came  out  from  the  westward.  About  midnight  the 
wind  became  fair,  and  having  called  the  captain,  I 
was  ordered  to  call  all  hands.  How  I  accomplished 
this  I  do  not  know,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  did 
not  give  the  true  hoarse,  boatswain  call  of  "A-a-11 
ha-a-a-nds  !  up  anchor,  a-ho-oy  !  "  In  a  short  time 
every  one  was  in  motion,  the  sails  loosed,  the  yards 
braced,  and  we  began  to  heave  up  the  anchor, 
which,  was  our  last  hold  upon  Yankee  land.  I 
could  take  but  little  part  in  all  these  preparations. 
My  little  knowledge  of  a  vessel  was  all  at  fault. 
Unintelligible  orders  were  so  rapidly  given,  and  so 
24* 


282  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

immediately  executed  ;  there  was  such  a  hurrying 
about,  and  such  an  intermingling  of  strange  cries 
and  stranger  actions,  that  I  was  completely  bewil 
dered.  There  is  not  so  helpless  and  pitiable  an 
object  in  the  world  as  a  landsman  beginning  a 
sailor's  life.  At  length  those  peculiar,  long-drawn 
sounds,  which  denote  that  the  crew  are  heaving  at 
the  windlass,  began,  and  in  a  few  moments  we 
were  under  weigh.  The  noise  of  the  water  thrown 
from  the  bows,  began  to  be  heard,  the  vessel  leaned 
over  from  the  damp  night  breeze,  and  rolled  with 
the  heavy  ground  swell,  and  we  had  actually  begun 
our  long,  long  journey.  This  was  literally  bidding 
"  good  night "  to  my  native  land. 

The  first  day  we  passed  at  sea  was  the  Sabbath. 
As  we  were  just  from  port,  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  to  be  done  on  board,  we  were  kept  at  work  all 
day,  and  at  night  the  watches  were  set,  and  every 
thing  put  into  sea  order. 

I  being  in  the  starboard,  or  second  mate's  watch, 
had  the  opportunity  of  keeping  the  first  watch  at 

sea.  S ,  a  young  man,  making,  like  myself, 

his  first  voyage,  was  in  the  same  watch,  and  as  he 
was  the  son  of  a  professional  man,  and  had  been  in 
a  counting-room  in  Boston,  we  found  that  we  had 
many  friends  and  topics  in  common.  We  talked 
these  matters  over, —  Boston,  what  our  friends  were 
probably  doing,  our  voyage,  &c.,  until  he  \rent  to 
take  his  turn  at  the  lookout,  and  left  me  to  myself. 
I  had  now  a  fine  time  for  reflection.  I  felt  for  the 
first  time  the  perfect  silence  of  the  sea.  The 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS  OF  A  YOUNG  SAILOR.  283 

officer  was  walking  the  quarter  deck,  where  I  had 
no  right  to  go,  one  or  two  men  were  talking  on  the 
forecastle,  whom  I  had  little  inclination  to  join,  so 
that  I  was  left  open  to  the  full  impression  of  every 
thing  about  me.  However  much  I  was  affected  by 
the  beauty  of  the  sea,  the  bright  stars,  and  the 
clouds  driven  swiftly  over  them,  I  could  not  but 
remember  that  I  was  separating  myself  from  all  the 
social  and  intellectual  enjoyments  of  life.  Yet, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  did  then  and  afterwards 
take  pleasure  in  these  reflections,  hoping  by  them 
to  prevent  my  becoming  insensible  to  the  value  of 
what  I  was  leaving. 

But  all  my  dreams  were  soon  put  to  flight  by  an 
order  from  the  officer  to  trim  the  yards,  as  the  wind 
was  getting  ahead  j  and  I  could  plainly  see,  by  the 
looks  the  sailors  occasionally  cast  to  windward,  and 
by  the  dark  clouds  that  were  fast  coming  up,  that 
we  had  bad  weather  to  prepare  for,  and  had  heard 
the  captain  say  that  he  expected  to  be  in  the  Gulf 
Stream  by  twelve  o'clock.  In  a  few  minutes  eight 
bells  were  struck,  the  watch  called,  and  we  went 
below.  I  now  began  to  feel  the  first  discomforts 
of  a  sailor's  life.  The  steerage  in  which  I  lived 
was  filled  with  coils  of  rigging,  spare  sails,  old  junk 
and  ship  stores,  which  had  not  been  stowed  away. 
Moreover,  there  had  been  no  berths  built  for  us  to 
sleep  in,  and  we  were  not  allowed  to  drive  nails  to 
hang  our  clothes  upon.  The  sea,  too,  had  risen, 
the  vessel  was  rolling  heavily,  and  every  thing  was 
pitched  about  in  grand  confusion.  There  was  a 


284 


THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 


complete  "  hurrah's  nest,"  as  the  sailors  say,  "  every 
thing  on  top  and  nothing  at  hand."  A  large  hawser 
had  been  coiled  away  upon  my  chest ;  my  hats, 
boots,  mattress  and  blankets  had  all  fetched  away 
and  gone  over  to  leeward,  and  were  jammed  and 
broken  under  the  boxes  and  coils  of  rigging.  To 
crown  all,  we  were  allowed  no  light  to  find  any 
thing  with,  and  I  was  just  beginning  to  feel  strong 
symptoms  of  sea-sickness,  and  that  listlessness  and 
inactivity  which  accompany  it.  Giving  up  all 
attempts  to  collect  my  things  together,  I  lay  down 
upon  the  sails,  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  the 
cry  of  "  All  hands  ahoy,"  which  the  approaching 
storm  would  soon  make  necessary.  I  shortly  heard 
the  rain-drops  falling  on  deck,  thick  and  fast,  and 
the  watch  evidently  had  their  hands  full  of  work, 
for  I  could  hear  the  loud  and  repeated  orders  of  the 
mate,  the  trampling  of  feet,  the  creaking  of  blocks, 
and  all  the  accompaniments  of  a  coming  storm.  In 
a  few  minutes  the  slide  of  the  hatch  was  thrown 
back,  which  let  down  the  noise  and  tumult  of  the 
-.deck  still  louder,  the  loud  cry  of  "  All  hands,  ahoy ! 
tumble  up  here  and  take  in  sail,"  saluted  our  ears, 
and  the  hatch  was  quickly  shut  again.  When  I 
got  upon  deck,  a  new  scene  and  a  new  experience 
was  before  me.  The  little  brig  was  close  hauled 
upon  the  wind,  and  lying  over,  as  it  then  seemed  to 
me,  nearly  upon  her  beam  ends.  The  heavy  head 
sea  was  beating  against  her  bows  with  the  noise 
and  force  almost  of  a  sledge  hammer,  and  flying 
over  the  deck,  drenching  us  completely  through. 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS   OF  A  YOUNG  SAILOR.  285 

The  topsail  halliards  had  been  let  go,  and  the  great 
sails  were  filling  out  and  backing  against  the  masts 
with  a  noise  like  thunder.  The  wind  was  whist 
ling  through  the  rigging,  loose  ropes  flying  about ; 
loud  and,  to  me,  unintelligible  orders  constantly 
given  and  rapidly  executed,  and  the  sailors  "  singing 
out  "  at  the  ropes  in  their  hoarse  and  peculiar  strains. 
In  addition  to  all  this,  I  had  not  got  my  "  sea  legs 
on,"  was  dreadfully  sick,  with  hardly  strength 
enough  to  hold  on  to  any  thing,  and  it  was  "  pitch 
dark."  This  was  my  state  when  I  was  ordered 
aloft,  for  the  first  time,  to  reef  topsails. 

How  I  got  along,  I  cannot  now  remember.  I 
"  laid  out "  on  the  yards  and  held  on  with  all  my 
strength.  I  could  not  have  been  of  much  service, 
for  I  remember  having  been  sick  several  times 
before  I  left  the  topsail  yard.  Soon  all  was  snug 
aloft,  and  we  were  again  allowed  to  go  below. 
This  I  did  not  consider  much  of  a  favor,  for  the 
confusion  of  every  thing  below,  and  that  inexpres 
sible  sickening  smell,  caused  by  the  shaking  up  of 
the  bilge-water  in  the  hold,  made  the  steerage  but 
an  indifferent  refuge  from  the  cold,  wet  decks.  I 
had  often  read  of  the  nautical  experiences  of  others, 
but  I  felt  as  though  there  could  be  none  worse  than 
mine ;  for  in  addition  to  every  other  evil,  I  could 
not  but  remember  that  this  was  only  the  first  night 
of  a  two  years'  voyage. 


TO   SCOTLAND. 


BY    ROBERT    C.    WATERSTON. 


LAND  of  my  fathers !  in  my  heart 
I  cherish  fervent  love  for  thee  ; 
Land,  where  the  good  have  borne  their  part, 

And  struggled  to  be  free ! 

Land  of  the  dark  brown  heath,  and  rocky  glen, 
Of  glorious  mountain  heights,  and  noble  hearted  men. 

Here  Solway  spreads  its  sheet  of  blue, 
And  Lomond's  wave  in  beauty  lies ; 
And  Bracklin's  torrent  thunders  through, 

Where  shadowy  forests  rise  ; 
Here  peaceful  lakes  are  sleeping  in  the  sun, 
And  rivers  through  the  glens,  like  threads  of  silver,  run. 

Here  patriots  lived,  and  dared  to  die, 

Ay,  die,  they  could  not  live  as  slaves, 
And  now,  beneath  the  arching  sky, 
A  nation  venerates  their  graves  ; 
And  ages,  yet  to  come,  shall  proudly  tell 
Where  Bruce  so  bravely  fought,  and  noble  Wallace  fell. 


TO    SCOTLAND.  287 

And  here  the  Covenanters  stood, 

And  died  upon  the  soil  they  trod, 
For  what  they  deemed  their  country's  good, 

And  for  the  cause  of  God  ; 
Here,  in  deep  caves,  and  in  lone  vale  and  glen, 
They  lived  as  martyrs  live,  and  died  as  Christian  men. 

And  here  have  poets  sweetly  sung, 

The  softest  strains  of  Scottish  song ; 
Here  was  King  James's  wild  harp  strung, 

And  his  rare  music  borne  along ; 
While  Michael  Bruce,  and  Allan  Ramsay,  still 
Live  in  those  ancient  songs  that  ring  o'er  lake  and  hill. 

And  Burns,  —  ay,  Burns,  whose  touching  notes 

Are  now  on  every  nation's  tongue, 
Where'er  the  voice  of  music  floats, 

Or  " Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung  ;  — 
Here  breathed  sweet  Nature's  bard  such  words  of  love, 
As  move  the  heart  to  tears,  and  raise  its  thoughts  above. 

Here  the  Last  Minstrel  tuned  his  lay, 

Here  Branksome's  towering  turrets  stood, 
Here  warriors  met  in  deadly  fray, 

At  Flodden  Field  and  Holyrood  ; 

Here  lived  Fitz  James ;  and  here,  'mid  mountain  brake, 
Floated,  in  her  light  skiff,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

Here  lived  those  mighty  heirs  of  fame, 

Whose  minds  will  never  be  forgot, 
Long  as  the  world  can  breathe  the  name, 

Of  Burns  and  Walter  Scott ; 

They  loved  thee ;  and  made  dear  thy  hills  and  vales 
By  their  heroic  songs,  and  legendary  tales. 


288  THE    BOSTON   BOOK. 

Thus,  honored  land,  within  my  heart 

I  cherish  fervent  love  for  thee, 
Land  where  the  good  have  borne  their  part, 

And  struggled  to  be  free ; 

Land  of  the  dark  brown  heath,  and  rocky  glen, 
Of  glorious  mountain  heights,  and  noble  hearted  men. 


GUY  LINDEN'S  FIRST  BOOK. 


BY    GEORGE    LUNT. 

I  HAD  just  published  my  first  volume,  and  felt 
very  sensibly  as  if  an  achievement  of  some  moment 
had  been  accomplished.  I  fully  entered  into  the 
peculiar  opinions  of  Mr.  Godwin  on  this  subject, 
who  conceived  that  whoever  had  written  a  book, 
had  attained  a  very  decided  superiority  over  the 
rest  of  mankind ;  and  who,  in  his  "  Essay  on 
Sepulchres,"  by  a  process  savoring  perhaps  as  much 
of  poetical  as  "  Political  Justice,"  developes  a 
scheme,  for  preserving  in  one  place  the  memory  of 
all  great  writers  deceased,  each  in  his  proper  sta 
tion.  I  knew  there  were  many  individuals  who 
differed  very  much  from  Mr.  Godwin  in  these 
particulars ;  hard,  churlish,  unideal  persons,  who 
considered  an  author  rather  as  the  enemy  than  the 
benefactor  of  his  kind,  and  regarded  the  man  who 
had  written  a  book  much  as  though  he  had  picked 
a  pocket.  But  this  was  their  affair,  not  mine. 
There  were  enough  ready  to  read,  estimate,  and 
value  good  books,  and  quite  enough  who  enjoyed 
25 


290  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

bad  ones  ;  and  I  thought  it  very  hard,  if  on  one 
score  or  other  I  could  not  hit  the  popular  fancy 
between  wind  and  water. 

My  sensations  at  this  conjuncture  were  peculiar, 
but  pleasing.  It  was  the  class  of  emotions,  proper 
to  the  young  man  who,  for  the  first  time,  opens  his 
new  store,  or  the  youthful  captain,  who  commands 
his  first  ship.  I  had  gone  through  no  small  amount 
of  tedious  negotiation  with  my  publisher  upon  this 
occasion ;  a  man,  in  my  opinion,  of  a  deal  of  un 
necessary  and  ill-timed  prudence.  Still,  he  was 
highly  considered  in  his  business,  was  a  popular 
publisher,  and  supposed  to  have  acquired  a  very 
handsome  thing  in  the  way  of  trade.  My  perform 
ance  was  a  poem,  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  "  ON 
THE  EMPLOYMENT  OF  TIME  ;  "  a  subject,  thought  I, 
evidently  of  the  greatest  moment,  and  one  in  which 
every  class  and  condition  of  mankind  are  immedi 
ately  interested.  Besides  its  religious  consequence, 
moralists  and  philosophers  have  directed  much 
attention  to  it  from  the  very  earliest  ages.  It  may 
be  considered,  in  some  sense,  therefore,  rather  a 
trite  topic  of  discussion.  Yet  I  do  not  perceive 
that  the  admonitions  of  these  elder  worthies  have 
had  much  beneficial  effect,  since  there  are  still  a 
great  many  idle  persons  about.  It  must  be,  there 
fore,  that  the  consideration  of  this  truly  interesting 
and  important  question  has  not  heretofore  been  at 
tended  with  all  those  attractive  and  forcible  persua 
sives,  which  I  flatter  myself  are  pretty  well  brought 
out  in  a  certain  series  of  MS.  sheets,  soon  to  con- 


291 


centrate  the  public  attention,  in  the  shape  of  a  neat 
and  modest  duodecimo  volume. 

I  perceived  that  my  publisher  looked  rather  blank 
upon  glancing  at  the  manuscript,  and  I  pitied  his 
want  both  of  taste  and  discernment ;  but  he  ad 
dressed  me  in  his  usual  courteous  and  urbane  man 
ner. 

"  This  is  rather  an  unpoetical  age,  I  fear,  Mr. 
Linden,"  said  he,  "but  we  must  do  the  best  we  can 
for  you  in  our  line." 

"  Very  true,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  the  age  is  indeed 
unpoetical  ;  what  with  steamships  and  railways, 
and  other  utilitarian  mischiefs,  men  seem  to  be 
fairly  whirled  out  of  all  sobriety,  and  decent,  seri 
ous  reflection.  But,  my  dear  sir,  this  is  the  very 
reason  I  write.  If  poets  cease  to  write,  because 
society  grows  utilitarian  and  unideal,  they  certainly 
help  to  aggravate,  rather  than  to  cure  the  evil. 
The  clergy  might  as  well  leave  off  preaching,  be 
cause  the  world  persists  in  sinning." 

"  There  is  some  force  in  your  argument,  I  ad 
mit,"  said  he  ;  "  the  times  are  perhaps  too  practical 
and  selfish  ;  and  though  imagination  may  be  cloyed, 
yet  as  the  appetite  is  inherent  in  our  nature,  it  must 
necessarily  revive,  when  any  thing  tempting  offers  ; 
and  I  suppose  it  is  proper  to  use  sound  argument, 
on  suitable  occasions,  whether  men  will  listen,  for 
the  moment,  or  not.  But  how  large  an  edition  of 
this  work  do  you  think  it  advisable  to  bring  out  ? " 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "I  have  made  some  little  calcu 
lation  about  this,  in  anticipation  of  your  question. 


292  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

It  is  true,  it  is  a  subject  in  which  every  man, 
woman  and  child,  is  deeply  concerned.  But  there 
are  a  good  many  persons,  in  every  community,  upon 
whom  you  cannot  safely  count  in  an  enterprise  of 
this  kind  ;  some  who  never  look  beyond  their  legers, 
others  involved  in  various  kinds  of  dissipation, 
besides  many  of  the  poorer  class,  to  whom  it  would 
be  inconvenient  to  purchase  even  the  cheapest  vol- 
iime,  however  important.  Let  me  see.  The  pop 
ulation  of  the  city  is  something  over  one  hundred 
thousand,  —  call  it,  in  round  numbers,  a  hundred 
thousand,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  computation. 
Now  allow  five  persons,  on  an  average,  to  each 
family,  and  that  gives  twenty  thousand  families, 
more  or  less.  It  would  be  useful,  to  be  sure,  that 
each  individual  should  possess  his  own  copy,  for 
occasional  reference ;  but  still  it  is  not  likely,  as  a 
general  rule,  that  more  than  one  copy  would  be 
purchased  by  any  particular  household,  except  as 
presents  to  friends  in  the  country,  or  the  like  of 
that.  Making  allowance,  therefore,  for  the  classes 
of  persons  before  alluded  to,  and  a  liberal  deduction 
to  meet  unforeseen  contingencies,  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  with  deference  to  your  better  judgment,  that 
it  would  not,  on  the  whole,  be  judicious  to  print, 
for  the  first  impression,  more  than,  say,  five  thou 
sand  copies." 

"  Five  thousand  copies  !  Mr.  Linden,"  said  he, 
and  if  he  had  not  that  moment  been  seized  with  an 
immoderate  fit  of  coughing,  I  should  almost  have 
imagined,  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  that  he 


293 


had  some  design  of  laughing  me  out  of  counte 
nance.  Bat  he  soon  resumed  his  usual  gravity,  and 
observed,  "  My  dear  sir,  I  perceive  that  you  are 
not  aware  of  the  arts  of  our  trade.  We  make  it 
an  invariable  rule  to  print  small,  and  sometimes 
very  small,  editions  of  our  best  works.  We  can 
easily  multiply  issues  of  these,  according  to  the 
public  demand  ;  and  a  book,  in  this  way,  often 
arrives  at  several  editions,  with  increased  fame, 
which,  without  this  precaution,  would  never  be 
reprinted  at  all.  We  cannot  certainly  ascertain, 
beforehand,  the  probable  demand ;  but,  if  you  will 
allow  me  to  recommend,  I  should  advise  a  trial  of 
the  market,  with  a  sort  of  skirmishing  party,  a 
light  edition,  of  a  few  hundreds, — straws,  you 
know,  Mr.  Linden,  to  see  how  the  wind  blows." 

This  proposition  seemed  really  so  reasonable,  that 
it  was  difficult  to  urge  any  objection,  although  I 
confess  I  was  secretly  piqued  at  the  unnecessary 
timidity  of  my  publisher. 

"  Besides,"  continued  Mr.  Oldfile,  "  you  must  per 
mit  me  to  suggest  to  you,  my  friend,  that  in  your 
computation,  otherwise  sufficiently  accurate,  you 
appear  to  me  to  have  omitted  one  or  two  very 
essential  considerations.  In  the  first  place,  many 
of  those  unhappy  persons,  who,  as  you  say,  persist 
in  wantonly  misspending  their  time,  will  hardly  be 
induced  to  devote  themselves  to  the  study  of  your 
performance,  though  generously  intended  for  their 
special  benefit.  Then  there  are,  we  would  hope, 
a  good  many  conscientious  individuals,  who  think 
25* 


294  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

they  already  occupy  themselves  according  to  their 
best  judgment ;  to  them  the  work  would  be  of  no 
service.  Others,  again,  are  so  constantly  engaged 
in  securing  their  daily  bread,  that  on  them  I  fear 
your  advice  would  be  thrown  away  ;  .  and  then 
there  are  in  this,  as  in  every  community,  no  small 
proportion  who  will  not,  and  not  a  few  who  cannot 
read.  Rely  upon  it,  too,  that  the  world  may  be 
divided  into  two  great  classes,  —  those  who  do  not 
think  at  all,  but  are  borne  passively  along,  as  it 
were,  by  the  current  of  events ;  and  of  the  much 
smaller  class  who  do  indeed  think,  the  greater 
number  are  supremely  devoted  to  the  consideration 
of  that  most  interesting  of  all  subjects,  themselves ! 
Besides,  not  to  enlarge  too  much  on  this  topic,  you 
must  be  aware  that  there  are  a  great  many  books 
published  every  year,  claiming  various  degrees  of 
attention,  and  many  poets  too,  besides  a  certain 
distinguished  friend  of  ours,  who  on  the  present 
occasion  shall  be  nameless.  If  we  are  not  in  fact 
a  poetical  people,  Mr.  Linden,  we  are  sometimes 
laughingly  charged  with  having  more  than  our  due 
proportion  of  those,  who  court  the  muses  with  more 
or  less  devotedness." 

"  Yes,"  replied  I,  with  some  indignation,  "  I  do 
know  that  such  an  accusation  is  often  brought,  by 
some  of  our  newspaper  hacks,  a  parcel  of  ignorant 
jackanapes,  who  cannot  tell  an  iambic  from  an  hex 
ameter,  and  whose  lucubrations  would  not  be  read 
at  all  if  poetry,  or  any  thing  else  worthy  the  name 
of  literature,  was  valued  among  us.  But  I  deny  the 


295 


fact.  A  truly  poetical  age  is  necessarily  a  culti 
vated,  generous,  disinterested  and  heroic  age.  But 
we  are  so  swallowed  up  in  scrambling  after  money, 
and  squabbling  about  politics,  principally,  I  verily 
believe,  for  salaries  instead  of  honors,  that  the  very 
idea  of  disinterestedness  has  become  an  imaginary 
quantity  amongst  us.  And  as  for  having  more  than 
our  due  share  of  poets,  such  as  they  are,  for  my 
part  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  the  country  if 
we  had  more  and  better  ones !  Why,  sir,  it  is  but 
a  few  days  since  I  was  running  over  an  old  book, 
published  in  the  year  of  grace  1723,  by  Giles 
Jacob,  so  often  quoted  by  Johnson  in  his  Lives, 
and  which  professes  to  give  a  catalogue  and  some 
sketches  of  the  English  poets,  from  the  time  of 
old  Chaucer  up  to  his  own  era ;  and  how  many  do 
you  think  they  were  ?  Two  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTY- 
FOUR!  And  this,  too,  without  including  some  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dramatic  poets.  Now,  make  a 
little  calculation  about  it.  From  Chaucer,  say  A.  D. 
1350,  to  A.  D.  1723,  is  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
three  years.  From  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  in 
December,  A.  D.  1620,  to  the  present  time,  is  two 
hundred  and  twenty-three  years.  The  problem 
then  may  be  thus  stated, — 

Years.  Years.        English  poets.      American  poets. 

373      :      223     ::     274        :        163|  -f- 

Now,  in  Mr.  Griswold's  book,  if  I  remember  right, 
only  eighty  individuals  are  set  down  as  AMERICAN 
POETS,  par  excellence;  it  is  clear,  therefore,  as  the 


296  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Rule-of-Three  can  make  it,  that  we  are  still  defi 
cient  of  our  just  proportion,  by  the  large  number 
of  EIGHTY-TWO  respectable  poets,  without  reckoning 
the  fraction,  which  may  be  considered  as  represent 
ing  one  or  more  of  the  occasional  contributors  to 
magazines,  journals,  and  the  like." 

"  The  case  is  certainly  worse  than  I  had  imag 
ined,"  said  Mr.  Oldfile  ;  u  but  I  hope  we  may  mend 
in  this,  as  in  other  particulars ;  a  sound  literature  is 
some  indication  of  a  sound  state  of  the  public  mind 
and  morals  ;  let  us  hope  for  the  best,  especially  as 
present  auspices  are  so  favorable." 

With  this  I  left  the  shop. 

I  had  not  neglected  such  precautions  as  seemed 
proper,  to  ascertain  the  probable  effect  of  my  work 
upon  the  public  mind.  Following  the  example  of 
Le  Sage,  I  read  over  the  manuscript  to  my  maiden 
aunt,  Hannah,  one  day  after  dinner,  as  she  sat  knit 
ting,  and  looking  at  me  occasionally  over  her  spec 
tacles,  as  I  thought  with  a  just  and  natural  pride. 
Nobody  could  accuse  her  of  wasting  time.  Her 
needles  flew  with  the  "  fatal  facility  of  the  octosyl 
labic  measure  ;"  but  she  heard  me  without  inter 
ruption  to  the  end.  Dear  soul !  she  would  have 
listened  with  exemplary  patience  to  the  dullest 
sermon,  out  of  pure  respect  to  the  subject.  Her 
criticism,  to  be  sure,  was  not  very  discriminating. 
She  thought  the  moral  good,  and  suggested  that 
she  hoped  it  might  prove  of  some  benefit  to  the 
family  of  our  opposite  neighbor,  Jones,  "  whose 
girls,"  she  remarked,  "  were  eternally  standing 


297 

before  the  glass,  or  lolling  out  of  the  doors  and 
windows." 

I  also  showed  the  production  to  several  of  my 
old  friends,  taking  care  to  select  the  critical  tribunal 
from  persons  of  different  professions  or  occupations, 
in  order  to  test  the  universality  of  my  doctrines. 
Each  one  returned  it  to  me  with  unqualified  appro 
bation. 

"A  very  good  thing,"  said  Oakes! 

"A  very  good  thing,"  said  Stokes ! ! 

"A  very  good  thing,"  said  Noakesi ! ! 

"  This  looks,  indeed,"  said  I,  "  like  the  consen 
taneous  voice  of  contemporary  applause  !  It  might 
perhaps  have  been  more  satisfactory  to  see  the 
more  particular  beauties  and  most  striking  passages 
pointed  out  and  commented  on  ;  but  que  voulez 
vous  ?  what  can  a  man  ask  more  than  unreserved 
and  entire  approbation  ?  " 

In  the  mean  time,  notwithstanding  the  usual  de 
lays  and  hindrances  of  publication,  the  days  shuf 
fled  over  each  other,  with  the  limping  gait  they 
always  put  on  in  the  eyes  of  an  impatient  author. 
Time,  however,  wore  on,  and  I  cheated  it  of  some 
of  its  tediousness  by  indulging  in  several  pleasing 
reveries.  Although  I  could  not  tell  how,  yet  it 
seemed  to  me,  from  some  indications,  that  the  pub 
lic  attention  was  already  a  good  deal  excited  on  the 
subject.  I  had  observed  several  scrutinizing-looking 
individuals  regard  me  with  marked  attention,  as  I 
hurried  along  the  street  in  my  daily  walks.  "  Old- 
file,"  thought  I,  "  has  given  these  fellows  a  hint  of 


298  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

what  they  may  expect,  before  many  days  are  out." 
I  might  be  mistaken,  however.  Perhaps  it  was 
only  the  peculiar  abstractedness  of  my  demeanor, 
or  something  uncommon  in  the  elastic  vigor  of  my 
hasty  step.  But  they  will  soon  know  more  about 
it,  said  I,  and  I  should  not  be  surprised,  if  hereafter 
a  little  wholesome  sensation  should  be  exhibited, 
when  some  folks  make  their  appearance  abroad  ! 
I  imagined  a  crowd  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
"  There,  that 's  he,"  says  one,  "  that 's  Mr.  Linden, 
the  poet !  "  "  Where  ?  "  says  another,  "  which  is 
he  ?  "  "  Why,  him  in  the  drab  overcoat  and  specta 
cles,  just  stepping  into  Oldfile's  shop,"  says  a  third. 

How  happily  the  days 
Of  Thalaba  went  by  ! 

Yet,  as  the  fated  moment  approached,  I  could 
not  help  growing  extremely  nervous  and  fidgety ; 
so  much  so,  indeed,  that  being  unable  any  longer 
to  remain  at  home,  I  engaged  a  sort  of  attic,  in  an 
old  building  directly  opposite  the  shop  of  my  pub 
lisher,  from  the  windows  of  which  I  could  con 
veniently  watch  the  progress  of  events.  As  I  sat 
musing  here  on  the  evening  before  publication,  it 
suggested  itself  to  me  that  considerable  incon 
venience  might  ensue,  on  the  next  morning,  if  it 
should  happen  that  much  of  a  crowd  should  be 
come  collected  (for  a  certain  purpose)  in  and  about 
Oldfile's  shop,  which  is  indeed  rather  a  cramped 
place  for  a  voluminous  publisher,  and  I  regretted 
that  I  had  not  made  some  suggestion  to  him,  by 


299 


way  of  obviating  this  dilemma.  In  case  of  a  rush, 
however,  I  thought  I  could  easily  make  him  ac 
quainted  with  my  plans  from  my  present  quarters, 
particularly  as  he  is  no  ways  deficient  in  sharpness, 
and  quite  good  at  taking  a  hint.  And  I  finally  pro 
posed  to  pin  or  fasten  together  several  large  sheets 
of  paper,  and  hang  the  signal  out  of  my  window, 
like  a  telegraph,  with  some  such  directions  as  the 
following,  written  out  in  a  coarse  bold  hand. 
"  Put  out  a  notice,  — thus  :  — 

jy  ENTER  ON  THE  RIGHT —  SAY  '  LINDEN'S  POEM'  — 

LAY  DOWN  YOUR  MONEY PASS  OFF 

TO  THE  LEFT." 

My  dream  that  night  was  certainly  a  very  curious 
one.  I  imagined  a  spacious  hall  with  a  lofty  pyra 
mid,  formed  by  reams  of  large-sized  paper,  piled  on 
end  ;  upon  the  summit  of  which  I  was  perched, 
gracefully  extending  a  gilt  copy  of  the  poem  by 
way  of  sceptre,  and  arrayed,  somewhat  fancifully, 
in  a  complete  robe  and  hood,  like  a  monk's  gown, 
very  curiously  cut  and  contrived  out  of  foolscap 
paper,  by  the  hands  of  Oldfile's  youngest  daughter ; 
and  an  incessant  throng  of  men,  women  and  chil 
dren,  passing  out  and  in,  each  saluting  me  with  a 
low  bow  or  courtesy,  as  the  case  might  be. 

The  morning  broke  as  sweetly  and  unconsciously 
as  upon  occasion  of  any  other  great  event ;  and 
nothing  particular  in  nature,  that  I  am  aware  of, 
would  have  indicated  to  an  uninterested  person, 
that  a  great  author  was  about  to  be  launched  into 


300  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

the  world  of  letters,  on  the  wings  of  Fame  !  I  took 
my  station  at  the  window,  having  previously  ascer 
tained  that  several  of  the  morning  papers,  to  do 
them  justice,  contained  notices  of  the  forthcoming 
work — by  way  of  advertisement,  forwarded  to 
them,  I  suppose,  by  old  Oldfile,  the  evening  before. 
The  shop  at  length  was  lazily  opened/  as  well  as 
others,  in  the  street.  The  shutters  were  slowly 
taken  down,  one  by  one,  and  deposited  in  their 
usual  place.  The  shop-boy  sprinkled  and  swept 
the  floor,  occasionally  resting  on  his  besom,  outside 
the  door,  and  interchanging  Doric  ejaculations  with 
his  next-door  neighbor.  Wheels  of  various  descrip 
tions  had  long  been  rattling  over  the  pavement,  and 
the  throng  and  current  of  every-day  life  commenced. 
Well  dressed  men,  with  anxious  faces  began  to 
hurry  down  to  their  business,  and  an  Irish  lad,  with 
scarce  a  rag  to  his  back,  lounged  whistling  along, 
munching,  at  intervals,  what  looked  to  me  like  a 
cold  potato.  I  observed,  as  yet,  no  unusual  bustle 
at  Oldfile's  shop.  But  I  comforted  myself  with 
various  considerations:  "Rome  was  not  built  in 
a  day,"  though  the  proverb  is  somewhat  musty  ; 
"everything  must  have  a  beginning;"  "literary 
people,  whose  attention,  naturally,  must  be  first 
attracted  to  the  book,  are,  I  fear,  late  risers,"  &c. 
Towards  ten  o'clock,  a  lady,  whom  I  instantly 
recognized,  came  jauntily  along  the  street,  evidently 
making  towards  the  point  where  all  my  hopes  were 
treasured.  It  is  perhaps  a  whim  ;  but  I  could  have 
wished  some  other  person  to  be  the  first  and  most 


GUY  LINDEN'S  FIRST  BOOK.  301 

favored  peruser  of  my  poetical  meditations ;  for  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  did  not  hold  Miss  Olivia  Brown 
in  very  high  estimation.  Yet,  certainly,  she  never 
looked,  to  me,  so  interesting  as  at  that  moment. 
Her  figure  is  even  now  clearly  depictured  to  my 
"  mind's  eye,"  as  she  minced  on  her  way,  in  her 
short  gray  silk  cloak  gathered  in  behind,  and  her 
brown  bonnet  with  a  little  black  feather  on  one 
side  •  with  long  curls  worn  a  la  Romantesque,  and 
a  sun-screen  (though  it  was  winter)  held  so  as  par 
tially  to  conceal  a  face,  considerably  beyond  that 
period,  when  the  exact  number  of  years  necessary 
to  constitute  "  a  certain  age  "  is  so  very  uncertain. 
Age  is  in  itself  venerable  and  lovely,  for  its  own 
sake,  upon  its  own  merits,  and  by  reason  of  its  own 
proper  and  becoming  qualities ;  but  it  never  looks 
so  unamiable  as  when  tricked  out  in  an  unnatural 
childishness  of  manner  and  apparel.  I  knew  that 
Miss  Brown  spent  her  mornings  in  collecting  gos 
sip  by  wholesale,  which  she  retailed,  in  a  drawling 
tone,  to  a  chosen  few  every  evening.  Her  tongue 
was  the  terror  of  friends  and  foes  alike.  "No 
matter,"  said  I,  "she'll,  at  least  proclaim  our  lite 
rary  existence,  like  a  trumpet ;  it  is  something,  in 
our  line,  to  be  talked  about  in  any  way ;  let  her 
abuse  me,  if  she  likes,  and  she's  sure  to  do  it;  I 
have  often  thought  it  of  very  little  consequence 
whether  public  characters  are  abused  or  praised,  or, 
in  fact,  whether  they  deserve  praise  or  censure,  if 
their  names  are  only  well  sounded  in  the  popular 


26 


302  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

After  a  reasonable  time  spent  in  Mr.  Oldfile's 
shop,  moments  to  me  of  much  interesting  specula 
tion,  Miss  Brown  again  made  her  appearance  in  the 
street.  She  had  nothing  in  her  hand  which  looked 
like  a  book,  but  the  package  was,  probably,  to  be 
forwarded  to  her  order. 

I  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  but  though 
many  persons  were  passing  here  and  there,  I  could 
distinguish  none  whose  steps  seemed  particularly 
directed  our  way.  "  But  here  comes  somebody  at 
last,"  said  I,  "who  may,  for  what  I  know,  be 
inclined  for  a  nibble  at  our  line,  (poetically  speak 
ing,)  though  certainly  never  suspected  of  any  very 
decided  literary  tendencies."  It  was  Mr.  Green, 
our  family  grocer,  and  a  very  worthy,  respectable 
man,  who  had  served  us  in  this  way  for  a  good 
many  years.  Notwithstanding  the  importance  of 
the  day,  he  was  dressed  in  his  usual  costume  ;  a 
peculiarly  broad-brimmed  drab  hat  on  the  top  of 
his  bald  head,  a  brown  coat  with  broad  flaps,  yellow 
waistcoat,  and  frills  to  his  shirt  bosom,  in  the  old 
style.  He  was  a  short  and  very  fat  man,  who 
loved  a  joke,  and  he  stopped  a  moment  to  say 
something  to  a  gray-whiskered  man  in  black,  on 
the  opposite  sidewalk,  at  which  they  both  seemed 
mightily  amused.  He  moved  on  leisurely  with  one 
hand  under  his  coat-tail,  and  "  actually "  said  I, 
rubbing  my  hands,  "  he  has  gone  in !  He  owes 
this  attention  to  the  Lindens,  certainly,  for  he  can 
have  few  better  customers  than  they  have  uniformly 
been." 


303 


After  the  lapse  of  considerable  time,  a  very  stately 
individual,  with  tremendous  whiskers  and  a  very 
big  cane,  whom  I  knew  to  be  the  editor  of  the 
"  Fun  and  Flash  Chronicle,"  stalked  into  the  im 
portant  precincts ;  and  shop-boys,  as  I  supposed,  of 
brother  booksellers,  occasionally  darted  in  and  out, 
now  with  and  now  without  a  volume  of  some  kind 
in  their  hands.  On  the  whole,  however,  the  influx 
did  not,  as  yet,  seem  to  be  great.  Indeed  I  some 
times  thought  there  was  a  determined  avoidance  of 
Oldfile's  shop,  on  the  part  of  the  public.  A  little 
boy  in  the  street  was  rolling  a  large  snowball  along 
the  gutter,  which  increased  by  slow  accumulations ; 
and  this  incident,  like  Bruce's  spider,  under  similar 
circumstances,  afforded  me  a  great  deal  of  encour 
agement.  Patience  appeared  to  me  the  first  of 
virtues,  and  deserving  of  a  special  celebration  in  a 
new  poem  in  the  Spenserian  stanza. 

The  days  in  winter  are,  as  every  body  knows, 
uncommonly  short ;  and  it  was  already  waxing 
rather  late  in  the  afternoon.  I  became  satisfied 
that  I  should  have  an  apportunity  of  communicat 
ing  verbally  to  Oldfile,  if  necessary,  instead  of  by 
telegraph,  my  views  in  regard  to  the  accommodation 
of  his  customers.  Not  a  single  soul  had  entered 
the  fated  portal  for  a  very  considerable  time  ;  and 
many  instances  of  public  ingratitude  towards  authors 
in  their  lifetime,  and  of  gross  ignorance  of  their 
merits  too,  had  flitted  across  my  imagination.  I 
remembered  how  Waller,  who  ought  to  have  known 


304  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

better,  spoke  of  Milton  as  "  an  old  blind  schoolmas 
ter,  who  had  written  a  prose  poem  about  Paradise 
Lost ;  "  and  how,  when  Pope  published  the  "  Essay 
on  Man  "  without  his  name,  and  inquired  of  Mallet 
the  news  of  the  day,  he  said  there  was  "  nothing 
but  a  poem  on  man,  written  by  somebody  who  had 
neither  skill  in  writing  nor  knowledge  of  the  sub 
ject  ; "  and  how  Pope  mortified  him  by  exposing 
the  authorship.  "  To  be  sure,"  said  I,  "  people 
cannot  bear  to  be  instructed  by  their  contempora 
ries,  especially  by  their  every-day  acquaintances ; 
they  don't  like  to  believe  that  others  Have  been 
thinking,  while  they  have  been  only  plodding  ;  still 
the  employment  of  time  is  a  subject  so  immediately 
interesting"  —  at  this  moment  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  very  beautiful  young  creature  trip 
ping  directly  up  to  the  door  of  Oldfile's  shop.  She 
was  indeed  the  very  bean-ideal  of  as  much  loveli 
ness  as  imagination  could  picture;  and  I  was  in 
stantly  confident,  that,  if  poetry  had  one  true  votary 
left  on  earth,  her  heart  must  indeed  beat  in  earnest 
sympathy  with  the  spiritual  worship.  After  all, 
thought  I,  it  is  to  the  unsophisticated  we  must  look 
to  keep  alive  the  ethereal  flame  of  the  sacred  altar. 
Old  sinners  are  proverbially  the  hardest  to  convert. 
I  belie ve  I  must  content  myself  with  the  approbation 
of  the  few  who  have  never  lost  the  simple,  childlike 
sense  of  good,  instead  of  struggling  after  the  many, 
who  have  become  wholly  given  up  to  the  nonsense 
and  nothings  of  the  world.  I  could  imagine  the 


GUY  LINDEN'S  FIRST  BOOK.  305 

earnest,  yet  modest  alacrity  with  which  she  took 
from  the  counter  my  little  volume  ; 

A  POEM 

ON    THE    EMPLOYMENT    OF    TIME. 
BY    GUY    LINDEN,    ESQ.. 

"  Mr.  Linden,"  said  she,  musing,  "is  not  he  the 
interesting  looking  gentleman,  in  a  drab  overcoat 
and  spectacles,  who  has  been  pointed  out  to  me 
somewhere  ?  Have  the  goodness  to  send  this  to 

No Street,  this  evening,  if  you   please. 

Or  stay,  I  will  take  this  myself,  (bless  her  soft 
hands)  as  I  am  impatient  to  look  it  over,  and  you 
may  send  half  a  dozen  copies  to  my  direction,  which 
I  shall  have  occasion  to  distribute  among  my 
friends!" 

"  Very  much  obliged  to  you  indeed,  Miss,  for  your 
patronage,"  said  Oldfile,  with  a  bow  and  a  simper  ; 
and  so  much  was  I  interested  in  the  fairy  vision  I 
had  conjured  up,  that  I  started  from  the  window, 
resolved  to  follow  my  unknown  patroness,  and 
ascertain  where  so  much  loveliness  and  liberality 
had  found  its  earthly  abode. 

At  this  moment,  there  was  a  sort  of  stumbling 
along  the  somewhat  dark  passage-way  that  led  to 
my  attic,  and  presently  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  I ;  and  who  should  enter  but  my 
old  friend,  Noakes,  who  had  returned  my  manuscript 
to  me,  with  such  decided  approbation.  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  that  I  forgot  the  lady,  and  advanced 
to  meet  him  with  more  than  usual  cordiality. 
26* 


306  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

"  How  do  you  do,  this  evening,  my  dear  Jack," 
said  I. 

"  Why,"  replied  he,  "  that  is  a  problem  I  have 
not  yet  solved,  after  half  breaking  my  neck  up 
your  ugly  stairs.  I  have  hunted  for  you,  like 
hound  for  hare !  What  on  earth  possessed  you 
to  take  up  your  quarters  in  this  dog-hole  of  a 
place  ?  " 

"I  am  sure,"  said  I,  "  the  situation  is  not  so  bad 
when  you  get  a  little  accustomed  to  the  passage- 
Avay ;  there  is  an  agreeable  prospect  from  the  win 
dows  ;  we  can  see  the  passengers  in  the  street : 
and  then  (gently  insinuating)  there  is  the  view 
of  literature  opposite,  always  interesting  to  a  stu 
dent,  you  know." 

"  You  don't  tell  me,  you  have  climbed  up  here," 
exclaimed  Jack,  "  to  secure  the  pleasure  of  gazing  at 
the  outside  of  a  bookseller's  windows  !  " 

"  Why  no,  not  exactly  that,"  said  I,  somewhat 
abashed,  "  only  I  have  taken  a  sort  of  fancy  to  the 
place,  at  present,  that 's  all  •  but  come,  what 's  the 
news  of  the  day  ?  " 

"News,"  said  he,  "I  know  of  nothing  particular, 
unless  it  be  the  late  storm ;  I  thought  my  chimneys 
would  come  down;  I  fear  we  shall  hear  of  it  on 
the  coast." 

"  Yes,"  continued  I,  considering  how  I  might 
make  this  rather  unfavorable  turn  of  the  conver 
sation  auxiliary  to  the  main  subject,  —  '-riot  all  we 
could  wish  for  the  prospects  of  literature  !  " 

"  Literature,"  says  he,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?     I 


307 


confess  I  can't  see  its  connection  with  last  night's 
storm." 

"  Why,  I  mean  the  communication  with  the 
country,"  said  I,  "  you  know  trade  must  suffer, 
of  course,  if  this  is  cut  off;  the  transmission  of 
books  is  delayed,  and  a  great  deal  of  disappoint 
ment  necessarily  ensues." 

"  I  suspect  the  country  people  can  wait  for  books, 
till  the  roads  are  mended,  if  they  require  them," 
replied  Jack,  "  and  I  cannot  conceive  that  any  very 
serious  consequences  are  likely  to  follow  the  delay 
of  a  few  hours.  The  elections  are  long  over,  the 
1  Message '  distributed,  there  is  nothing  that  I  am 
aware  of  to  be  circulated  '  with  speed,'  and  I  know 
of  nothing  likely  to  excite  particular  interest  at  the 
present  time." 

This  was  rather  a  damper ;  but  I  persevered. 

•"  Well,"  cried  I,  "at  any  rate  it  is  very  pleasant 
to  see  the  sunshine  again,  after  so  much  dull  wea 
ther  ;  it  is  like  lighting  on  a  brilliant  passage  in  a 
new  poem,  after  poring  over  a  stupid  book.  Have 
you  never  remarked  the  happy  influence  of  the  sun 
in  brightening  all  nature  ?  how  the  moment  it 
flashes  through  the  cloud,  it  seems  to  lift  a  shadow 
from  the  heart  ?  how  it  seems  to  inspire  you  and 
raise  you  above  sublunary  concerns,  and  make  you, 
as  it  were,  a  poet,  whether  you  will  or  no  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  it's  pleasanter  when  the  sun  shines," 
was  Jack's  answer,  "  every  body  knows  that,  and 
feels  it  too  ;  but  something  which  I  can't  fathom 
seems  to  be  the  matter  with  you  to-day ;  you  fly 


308  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

a  height  above  me ;  have  you  been  up  all  night  ? 
or  are  you  in  love,  or  are  you  writing  a  novel  ?  I 
have  it,  by  Jupiter  !  Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
had  entirely  forgotten  your  new  poem,  though  I 
saw  it  advertised  this  morning.  Good  bye,  I  '11  get 
it  at  once,  and  make  amends  for  my  negligence,  by 
criticising  it  to  your  heart's  content,  when  I  see 
you  again." 

As  it  had  now  grown  rather  dusky,  I  ventured 
across  the  road,  to  Oldfile's  shop ;  into  which  I 
sauntered,  with  a  very  well  assumed  air  of  modest 
indifference  to  the  tidings,  in  anticipation  of  which 
my  very  ears  tingled. 

"Good  evening,"  said  I,  "Mr.  Oldfile ;  a  fine 
day  we  have  had  of  it." 

"  Oh,  how  d  'ye  do,  Mr.  Linden,"  replied  he,  with 
as  near  an  approach  to  a  yawn  as  it  would  be  pos 
sible  to  make,  and  miss  of  it ;  "  rather  tired,"  con 
tinued  Oldfile,  rubbing  his  hand  slowly  over  his 
forehead,  and  down  across  his  chin.  This  looked 
well  for  trade.  However,  he  said  nothing. 

I  fidgeted  round  for  a  while,  pretending  to  be 
employed  in  examining  the  various  publications  on 
the  counter.  Seeing  no  prospect  of  his  commencing 
;the  desired  conversation,  I  at  length  thought  it  best 
to  begin. 

"  Well,  what  success  to-day,  sir?  "  said  I. 

"  Success  !  "  said  he,  "  Oh,  about  the  poem,"  as 
if  suddenly  recollecting  that  there  was  one  subject 
in  which  I  felt  a  natural  interest,  and  shuffling 
among  the  books  on  the  counter,  "  I  have  been 


GUY  LINDEN'S  FIRST  BOOK.  309 

so  much  engaged  to-day  in  looking  over  old  ac 
counts, —  a  sad  catalogue  in  these  times,  Mr.  Lin 
den,  —  that  I  had  really,  for  the  moment,  forgotten 
our  new  work.  Let  me  see !  we  have  just  sold 
one  copy  to  Mr.  Noakes,  I  think,  of  Kilby  Street." 

"  One  copy,"  cried  I,  "  you  surely  have  sold 
more  than  one  copy  !  " 

"  Hand  me  the  day-book,"  said  Oldfile,  turning 
to  his  clerk,  who  remarked  that  they  had  given  a 
copy  to  the  editor  of  the  Fun  and  Flash  Chronicle, 
and  he  had  promised  to  notice  it  when  he  could 
find  time. 

"  Time,  indeed !  "  observed  Oldfile,  "  he  must 
be  sadly  put  to  it  to  find  articles,  if  we  may  judge 
from  the  appearance  of  his  columns.  I  hope  your 
book  will  do  him  good,  Mr.  Linden,  for  /  consider 
him  a  very  idle  fellow." 

"  But  surely,"  I  observed,  "  I  saw  Miss  Brown 
go  in  at  your  door  this  morning." 

"  What  Miss  Brown  ?  "  inquired  he. 

"  Why,  Miss  Olivia  Brown,  who  makes  it  a  point 
to  talk  about  all  the  new  publications,  and  indeed, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  about  every  thing  else  that 's 
new,"  replied  I,  "  and  I  suppose,  therefore,  she 
must  read  them." 

"  I  fear  that  is  what  the  logicians  call  a  non 
sequitur"  remarked  Oldfile,  "  but  I  did  not  see  her 
here." 

"  Miss  Brown,"  interposed  the  clerk,  "  wished  to 
look  over  the  late  pamphlet  '  On  the  Proper  Use  of 
the  True  Milk  of  Roses.'  " 


310  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

"My  neighbor,  Mr.  Green,  was  certainly  in," 
said  I,  somewhat  aghast. 

"  What,  my  old  friend  Green,  yes,  he  came  over 
to  ask  me  to  look  in  at  Milsom  Street,  after  tea  this 
evening  ;  it  is  Henry  Green's  birthnight,  I  believe  ; 
just  a  few  friends,  a  glass  of  old  wine,  and  perhaps, 
a  quiet  rubber ;  these  are  relaxations  you  know, 
Mr.  Linden,  which  business  requires,  and  I  think 
justifies." 

"  Yery  true,"  gasped  I,  as  firmly  as  I  could  man 
age  ;  but  finding  my  articulation  becoming  some 
what  impeded,  I  darted  out  of  the  shop,  and  have 
not  even  seen  it  since.  The  beautiful  young  lady, 
may,  for  aught  I  know,  have  exhibited  a  taste  for 
literature  similar  to  Miss  Brown's.  I  make  it  a 
point  to  walk  (towards  evening)  in  a  different 
direction  from  the  shop;  nor  have  I  since  learned 
a  syllable  upon  the  subject,  except  from  the  follow 
ing  notice,  which  duly  made  its  appearance  in  the 
Fun  and  Flash : 

"  A  NEW  POEM.  We  have  spent  a  few  moments, 
ill  spared  from  our  more  important  avocations,  in 
looking  over  portions  of  a  poem  *  On  the  Employ 
ment  of  Time,'  by  Guy  Linden,  Esq.  It  is  in  the 
Spenserian  stanza.  Some  of  the  passages  are,  per 
haps,  as  good  as  could  be  expected  •  and  there  are 
few  things  in  the  sentiment  of  the  production  to 
which  we  should  think  it  worth  while  formally  to 
object.  Yet  we  take  the  liberty  to  suggest  to  Mr. 
Linden,  that  the  usages  of  society  have  sanctioned 


GUY  LINDEN'S  FIRST  BOOK.  311 

as  respectable,  many  other  modes  of  spending  time 
than  those  which  he  enumerates ;  and  whoever 
writes  a  book  ought  to  be  certain,  that  his  views 
correspond  with  the  enlightened  taste  of  the  times. 
Indeed,  it  is,  in  our  view,  rather  presumptuous  to 
write  a  book  at  all ;  and  whoever  does  so,  is  not 
unlikely  to  find  himself  in  the  condition  of  Ixion  or 
Jehu,  we  forget  which,  who,  in  old  times,  undertook 
to  drive  his  horses  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  the  sun, 
without  blinders,  and  got  upset  for  his  pains  !  We 
may  not  have  told  the  story  exactly  right ;  for  we 
sometimes  find  a  confusion  in  our  mind  about  these 
classical  reminiscences,  resulting,  no  doubt,  from 
the  fabulous  character  of  poetical  times,  and  we  do 
not  think  very  well  of  those  who  pretend  to  know 
more  on  these  subjects  than  us  and  our  contempo 
raries.  Besides,  this  is  a  practical  age  ;  and,  there 
fore,  has  little  need  of  poetry.  Whoever  publishes 
a  book,  too,  certainly  presumes  to  assume,  that  it 
will  find  readers  j  but  the  truth  is,  the  world  is 
now  too  much  in  a  hurry  to  read  books,  especially 
those  in  verse.  We  cater  for  the  popular  taste,  and 
rejoice  that  the  public  are  sufficiently  satisfied  with 
the  more  racy  and  piquant  literature  which  we  are 
able  to  entertain  them  with,  in  the  '  Fun  and 
Flash.' 

"  We  hold  it  the  duty  of  a  critic,  however,  to  find 
some  fault ;  else  wherefore  criticise  at  all  ?  and  we 
are  sorry  to  observe  in  this  poem  some  marks  of 
carelessness  which  we  cannot  pass  over ;  such  as 
rhyming  'thimble'  with  '  tremble,'  and  'treble3 


312  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

with  '  quibble,'  &c.  &c.  We  have  heard  of  poets, 
who  would  not  be  persuaded  to  sacrifice  a  strong 
thought  for  the  sake  of  securing  an  absolutely  exact 
rhyme.  Pope,  who,  for  some  reason  which  we 
could  never  divine,  has  been  called  the  most  correct 
of  English  poets,  was  of  this  school,  and  many 
instances,  like  those  we  have  pointed  out,  may  be 
found  in  his  writings.  So  we  are  told ;  we  have 
no  time  to  read,  scarcely  to  think.  But,  in  our 
view,  the  perfection  of  the  rhyme  constitutes  the 
chief  charm  of  poetry. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  we  feel  constrained  to  say,  in 
regard  to  this  poern,  l  On  the  Employment  of 
Time,'  that  we  cannot  but  think  Mr.  Linden  might 
have  employed  his  time  much  better  than  in  writing 
it." 


BE    HAPPY. 


BY    ELIZUR    WRIGHT. 


A  COMMANDMENT  there  is  so  exceedingly  broad, 

It  reaches  as  far  as  the  finger  of  God  — 

A  commandment,  though  often  forgotten  by  men, 

As  high  and  as  sacred  as  aught  of  the  ten. 

On  the  sky  it  is  written  in  letters  of  light, 

And  the  clouds  that  would  hide  it,  both  morning  and  night, 

Are  obliged  to  confess  that  the  writing  is  true, 

Which  they  do  with  a  beautiful  penitent  hue  — 

Nay,  shout  it  aloud  as,  in  garments  of  white, 

They  float  at  their  ease  in  the  measureless  blue. 

'T  is  writ  on  the  numberless  leaves  of  the  wood, 

On  the  light  dancing  waves  of  the  fathomless  flood, 

And  the  billows  that  whiten  in  merrier  mood, — 

"  Be  happy,  my  creatures,  be  happy  and  good." 

Poor  toiling  immortal,  with  clouds  on  thy  brow, 
Thy  heart  overloaded  with  sorrow  and  care, 
Look  inward  :  behold,  the  commandment  is  there ! 
Thy  heart  is  in  motion,  thou  knowest  not  how  : 
•       27 


314  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Quick  currents  are  streaming  and  ever  returning, 

The  fire  of  vitality  constantly  burning, 

And  systems  on  systems  unceasingly  acting  — 

A  task  which,  for  thee,  would  be  sadly  distractin  g; 

The  hand  that  so  secretly  does  for  thy  sake 

Such  a  labor,  whilst  thou  art  asleep  or  awake,  — 

'T  is  that  of  a  truly  unchangeable  friend. 

Then  hush  for  a  moment,  and  meekly  attend,. 

To  the  voice  of  thy  pulse  while  it  tenderly  cries, 

"  Be  happy,  my  creature,  be  happy  and  wise." 

Faint-hearted  immortal,  recoiling  with  dread 
From  a  future  which  threatens  to  drop  on  thy  head, 
While  ensconced  in  the  body,  a  famine  of  bread, 
And  terribler  ills  in  the  realms  of  the  dead, 
Look  out  on  the  lilies  that  laugh  in  the  breeze, 
Look  out  on  the  larks  that  rejoice  in  the  sky, 
Look  out  on  the  ravens  that  trustingly  cry  ;  — 
Behold,  there 's  a  Spirit  that  careth  for  these  :  — 
And  look  at  the  moth,  with  its  glorious  wings, 
Created  anew  from  the  meanest  of  things, 
And  look  at  the  sport  of  the  maritime  bird, 
When  the  tempests  of  winter  are  chillingly  heard, 
Outcrying  to  thee  from  the  shelterless  cold, — 
"  Be  happy,  thou  creature,  be  happy  and  bold." 

Poor  wandering  pilgrim,  led  often  astray 
By  lights  that  are  false  to  the  heavenward  way, 
Till  the  landmarks  of  morals  are  nearly  washed  out 
By  the  fog  and  the  mist  and  the  drizzle  of  doubt, 
From  the  tracks  of  thy  fellows  walk  sometimes  abroad, 
And  fasten  thine  eyes  on  the  signals  of  God. 
In  the  watches  of  silence,  above  thee,  behold 
The  stars  in  their  courses  as  sure  as  of  old, 


BE    HAPPY. 

Round  leading  the  seasons,  as  fresh  and  as  fair 

As  when  the  winged  zephyr  first  frolicked  in  air. 

Stability  firm  in  perpetual  change, 

Is  the  law  they  obey  in  their  limitless  range. 

And  hark,  from  the  depths  of  the  motionless  lake, 

Which  the  aspen  o'erhangeth,  too  drowsy  to  quake, 

Reversing  exactly  the  canopy  blue, 

The  voice  of  its  stillness  comes  sweetly  to  you, — 

"  Be  happy,  my  creature,  be  happy  and  true." 


315 


ROOM  ENOUGH  AND  WORK  ENOUGH 
FOR  ALL. 


BY    GEORGE   R.    RUSSELL. 


IT  is  a  common  complaint,  perpetually  reitera 
ted,  that  the  occupations  of  life  are  filled  to  over 
flowing  ;  that  the  avenues  to  wealth,  or  distinction, 
are  so  crowded  with  competitors,  that  it  is  hopeless 
to  endeavor  to  make  way  in  the  dense  and  jostling 
masses.  This  desponding  wail  was  doubtless 
heard,  when  the  young  earth  had  scarcely  com 
menced  her  career  of  glory,  and  it  will  be  dolefully 
repeated,  by  future  generations,  to  the  end  of  time. 
Long  before  Cheops  had  planted  the  basement- 
stone  of  his  pyramid,  when  Sphinx  and  Colossi 
had  not  yet  been  fashioned  into  their  huge  exist 
ence,  and  the  untouched  quarry  had  given  out 
neither  temple  nor  monument,  the  young  Egyptian, 
as  he  looked  along  the  Nile,  may  have  mourned 
that  he  was  born  too  late.  Fate  had  done  him 
injustice,  in  withholding  his  individual  being  till 
the  destinies  of  man  were  accomplished.  His 
imagination  warmed  at  what  he  might  have  been, 
had  his  chances  been  commensurate  with  his  merits : 


ROOM  ENOUGH  AND  WORK  ENOUGH  FOR  ALL.   317 

but  what  remained  for  him  now,  in  this  worn-out, 
battered,  used-up  hulk  of  a  world,  but  to  sorrow 
for  the  good  old  times,  which  had  exhausted  all 
resources ! 

The  Roman  youth,  as  he  assumed  the  "  toga 
mrilis"  and,  in  all  the  consciousness  of  newly 
acquired  dignity,  folded  about  him  his  fresh  insignia 
of  manhood,  thought  that  it  should  have  been  put 
on  some  centuries  earlier.  Standing  amidst  memo 
rials  of  past  glories,  where  arch  and  column  told  of 
triumphs,  which  had  secured  boundless  dominion, 
he  felt  that  nothing  was  left  for  the  exercise  of  his 
genius,  or  the  energies  of  his  enterprise.  He  saw, 
sculptured  on  frieze  and  architrave,  the  subjugation 
of  many  a  nation,  and  strange  garbs  and  foreign 
tongues  swarmed  and  sounded  around  him,  as  the 
victims  of  all  lands  were  summoned  to  a  common 
captivity.  The  black  children  of  the  sun  were 
there,  from  beyond  the  burning  sands  of  the  desert, 
and  the  unshorn,  fur-clad  barbarian  of  the  north, 
even  while  the  ravens  were  gathering  in  the  halls 
of  Odin,  for  their  "  fell  swoop."  The  recesses  of 
Asia  gave  up  the  swarthy  Indian,  and  from  the 
"  Ultima  Thule  "  came  the  blue-eyed  Briton.  All 
were  mingled  in  the  same  sad  doom,  at  the  bidding 
of  the  universal  master.  What  was  left  for  ambi 
tion  ?  Conquest  had  consumed  itself,  the  march  of 
the  legion  was  stayed,  and  the  domesticated  eagle 
crouched  among  the  household  gods. 

The  mournful  lamentation  of  antiquity  has  not 
been  weakened  in  its  transmission,  and  it  is  not 
27* 


318  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

more  reasonable  now  than  when  it  groaned  by  the 
Nile  and  Tiber.  There  is  always  room  enough  in 
the  world,  and  work  waiting  for  willing  hands. 
The  charm  that  conquers  obstacle  and  commands 
success,  is  strong  Will  arid  strong  Work.  Applica 
tion  is  the  friend  and  ally  of  genius.  The  laborious 
scholar,  the  diligent  merchant,  the  industrious  me 
chanic,  the  hard-working  farmer,  are  thriving  men, 
and  take  rank  in  the  world,  while  genius,  by  itself, 
lies  in  idle  admiration  of  a  fame  that  is  ever  pros 
pective.  The  hare  sleeps  or  amuses  himself  by  the 
wayside,  and  the  tortoise  wins  the  race. 

Even  the  gold  of  California  requires  hard  work. 
It  cannot  be  had  for  the  gathering,  nor  is  it  to  be 
coaxed  out  with  kid  gloves.  The  patents  of 
nobility,  on  the  Sacramento,  are  the  hard  hand  and 
the  sun-burned  face  of  the  laboring  man. 

Genius  will,  alone,  do  but  little  in  this  matter- 
of-fact,  utilitarian,  hard-working  world.  He  who 
would  master  circumstances  must  come  down  from 
the  clouds,  and  bend  to  unremitting  toil.  To  few 
of  the  sons  of  men  is  given  an  exception  from  the 
common  doom. 

"  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling1, 
May  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven," 

and  yet,  in  all  that  space,  encounter  nothing  but  air 
too  impalpable  to  be  wrought  into  a  local  habitation 
or  a  name.  His  suspended  pen  may  wait  in  vain 
for  the  inspiration  that  is  to  bring  immortality,  and 
when,  at  last,  it  descends  on  the  expectant  foolscap, 


ROOM  ENOUGH  AND  WORK  ENOUGH  FOR  ALL.       319 

it  is,  perhaps,  only  to  chronicle  rhymes  which  shall 
jingle,  for  a  day,  in  some  weekly  newspaper.  He 
who  draws  on  genius  alone,  is  oftentimes  answered 
by  —  no  funds ;  his  drafts  are  unexpectedly  pro 
tested,  and  he  finds  himself  bankrupt,  even  while 
unlimited  wealth  seems  glittering  around  him. 

It  is  not  revealed  how  much  of  the  celebrity  of 
gifted  men  has  been  dependent  on  "  hard  digging." 
The  rough  draughts  of  inspiration  are  not  printed ; 
the  pen-crossings,  those  modernized  marks  of  the 
inverted  stylum,  curl  up  chimney.  There  may 
have  been  much  perplexity,  before  smooth  verses, 
which  fall  so  harmoniously  on  the  ear,  were  tortured 
into  existence ;  many  a  trial,  before  the  splendid 
figure  could  be  hammered  into  shape  : 

"  in  versu  faciendo 

Ssepe  caput  scaberet,  vivos  et  roderet  ungues." 

The  wondrous  efforts  of  the  mightiest  masters  of 
art  have  something  in  them  besides  genius.  The 
transfigured  divinity  of  Raphael,  and  the  walls 
covered  over  by  a  pencil  which  seems  to  have  been 
dipped  in  sunbeams,  are  records  not  only  of  the 
mind,  that  could  image  to  itself  those  creations,  but 
of  the  intense  study  which,  it  is  known,  he  devoted 
to  the  elements  of  his  art.  Not  by  sudden  flashes 
came  the  graceful  proportions,  which  give  such 
exceeding  beauty  to  his  works.  Genius  trusted  not 
to  itself  alone,  but  gathered  from  science  illustrated 
in  the  anatomical  room,  and  from  untiring  contem- 


320  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

plation  of  dead  and  living  model,  every  auxiliary 
that  could  contribute  to  excellence. 

When  Michael  Angelo  hewed  out  his  thought  in 
marble,  or  personated,  in  fresco,  the  awful  concep 
tions  of  the  bard  he  loved  so  well,  giving  material 
form  to  more  than  the  ideal  of  Dante,  he  produced 
the  result  of  profound  meditation  mingled  with  the 
severest  application  to  the  acquirement  of  all  know 
ledge  that  could  aid  his  unrivalled  power. 

The  examples  before  us  bid  us  work,  and  the 
changing  present  offers  ample  opportunity.  Around 
us,  every  where,  the  new  crowds  aside  the  old. 
Improvement  steps  by  seeming  perfection.  Dis 
covery  upsets  theories  and  clouds  over  established 
systems.  The  usages  of  our  boyhood  become  mat 
ters  of  tradition,  for  the  amusement  of  our  children. 
Innovation  rises  on  the  site  of  homes  reverenced  for 
early  association.  The  school-books  we  used  are 
no  longer  respected,  and  it  is  not  safe  to  quote  the 
authorities  of  our  college  days.  Science  can 
scarcely  keep  pace  with  the  names  of  publications, 
qualifying  or  abrogating  the  past.  Machinery  be 
comes  old  iron,  as  its  upstart  successor  usurps  its 
place.  The  new  ship  dashes  scornfully  by  the 
naval  prodigy  of  last  year,  and  the  steamer  laughs 
at  them  both.  The  railroad  engine,  as  it  rushes  by 
the  crumbling  banks  of  the  canal,  screams  out  its 
mockery  at  the  barge  rotting  piecemeal.  The 
astronomer  builds  up  his  hypothesis,  and  is  com 
forting  himself  among  the  nebulae,  when  invention 
comes  to  the  rescue ;  the  gigantic  telescope  points 


ROOM  ENOUGH  AND  WORK  ENOUGH  FOR  ALL.   321 

upward,  and  lo !  the  raw  material  of  which  worlds 
are  manufactured,  becomes  the  centres  of  systems 
blazing  in  the  infinite  heavens,  and  the  defeated 
theorizer  retreats  into  space,  with  his  speculation, 
to  be  again  routed,  Avhen  human  ingenuity  shall 
admit  us  one  hair-breadth  further  into  creation. 

The  powers  of  man  have  not  been  exhausted. 
Nothing  has  been  done  by  him,  that  cannot  be 
better  done.  There  is  no  effort  of  science  or  art 
that  may  not  be  exceeded ;  no  depth  of  philosophy 
that  cannot  be  deeper  sounded ;  no  flight  of  imagi 
nation  that  may  not  be  passed  by  strong  and  soaring 
wing. 

All  nature  is  full  of  unknown  things.  Earth, 
air,  water,  the  fathomless  ocean,  the  limitless  sky, 
lie  almost  untouched  before  us.  The  chances  of 
our  predecessors  have  not  been  greater  than  those 
which  remain  for  our  successors.  What  has  hith 
erto  given  prosperity  and  distinction,  has  not  been 
more  open  to  others  than  to  us ;  to  no  one,  past  or 
present,  more  than  to  the  young  man  who  shall 
leave  college  to-morrow. 

Sit  not  with  folded  hands,  calling  on  Hercules. 
Thine  own  arm  is  the  demi-god.  It  was  given  to 
thee  to  help  thyself.  Go  forth  into  the  world 
trustful,  but  fearless.  Exalt  thine  adopted  profes 
sion,  nor  vainly  hope  that  its  name  alone  will  exalt 
thee.  Look  on  labor  as  honorable,  and  dignify  the 
task  before  thee,  whether  it  be  in  the  study,  office, 
counting-room,  work -shop,  or  furrowed  field.  There 
is  an  equality  in  all,  and  the  resolute  will  and  pure 
heart  may  ennoble  either. 


322  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

But  no  duty  requires  thee  to  shut  out  beauty,  or 
to  neglect  the  influences  that  may  unite  thee  with 
Heaven. 

The  wonders  of  art  will  humanize  thy  calling. 
The  true  poet  may  make  thee  a  better  man,  and 
unknown  feelings  will  well  up  within  thee,  where 
the  painter's  soul  glows  on  canvass,  and  the  almost 
breathing  marble  stands  a  glorious  monument  of  the 
statuary's  skill. 

Nature,  too,  will  speak  kindly  to  thee  from  field 
and  forest,  from  hill  and  lake  side.  Go  into  glade 
and  woodland,  by  the  waving  harvest,  and  the 
bright  river  hurrying  to  the  sea.  Look  up  at  the 
stars  in  the  still  night.  Listen  to  the  gentle  voice 
of  the  south  wind,  as  it  whispers  with  the  pines. 
Watch  the  pulsations  of  the  ocean,  as  they  regularly 
beat  on  the  sand.  Such  teachings  will  tell  thee 
there  is  consolation  in  the  struggles  of  this  life,  and 
may  foreshadow  the  repose  of  that  which  is  to 
come. 


TO   MY   NAMESAKE,   ON   HIS   BAPTISM. 


BY    WILLIAM   CROSWELL. 


CHILDE  William,  I  have  little  skill, 

But  much  of  heart  and  hope, 
To  clear  from  every  sign  of  ill 

Thy  happy  horoscope  ! 
The  occult  gift  is  hid  from  me, 

Nor  may  my  art  divine 
Thy  life's  unfolded  destiny 

From  this  sweet  palm  of  thine  ! 

But  in  thy  mother's  tender  love, — 

Thy  father's  anxious  care,  — 
And,  more,  the  answer  from  above 

To  our  baptismal  prayer,  — 
In  these,  a  hallowed  influence  dwells, 

A  charm  that 's  heavenlier  far 
Than  might  of  planetary  spells 

Or  culminating  star ! 


324  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

The  power  of  holiest  rites,  fair  boy, 

The  tears  that  oft  will  wet 
Thy  forehead  from  excess  of  joy, — 

These  be  thy  amulet ! 
On  these  auspicious  prospects  rest, 

These  figure  out  thy  fate, 
How  can  they  fail  to  make  thee  blest,  — 

Blest,  if  not  fortunate. 

A  childless  man,  well  may  I  deem 

Thy  name  my  highest  pride, 
Rich  in  thy  parents'  dear  esteem, 

Though  poor  in  all  beside ! 
Well  may  my  heart  with  gladness  ache, 

Flower  of  a  noble  stem, 
If  one  will  love  thee  for  my  sake, 

As  I  have  honored  them ! 


A  WELCOME  TO  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BY    JOSIAH   QUINCY,    JR. 

A  YOUNG  man  has  crossed  the  ocean  with  no 
hereditary  title,  no  military  laurels,  no  princely  for 
tune,  and  yet  his  approach  is  hailed  with  pleasure 
by  every  age  and  condition,  and  on  his  arrival  he 
is  welcomed  as  a  long  known  and  highly  valued 
friend.  How  shall  we  account  for  this  reception  ? 
Must  we  not  at  the  first  glance  conclude  with 
Falstaff,  "  If  the  rascal  have  not  given  me  medi 
cines  to  make  me  love  him,  I  '11  be  hanged :  it 
could  not  be  else, —  I  have  drunk  medicines." 

But  when  reflection  leads  us  to  the  causes  of  this 
universal  sentiment,  we  cannot  but  be  struck  by 
the  power  which  mind  exercises  over  mind,  even 
while  we  are  individually  separated  by  time,  space, 
and  other  conditions  of  our  present  being.  Why 
should  we  not  welcome  him  as  a  friend  ?  Have 
we  not  walked  with  him  in  every  scene  of  varied 
life  ?  Have  we  not  together  investigated,  with  Mr. 
Pickwick,  the  theory  of  Tittlebats  ?  Have  we  not 
ridden  together  to  the  "  Markis  of  Granby,"  with 
old  Weller  on  the  box,  and  his  son  Samivel  on  the 
28 


326  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

dickey  ?  Have  we  not  been  rook  shooting  with 
Mr.  Winkle,  and  courting  with  Mr.  Tupman  ?  Have 
we  not  played  cribbage  with  "  the  Marchioness," 
and  quaffed  the  rosy  with  Dick  Swiveller  ?  Tell 
us  not  of  Animal  Magnetism !  We,  and  thousands 
of  our  countrymen,  have  for  years  been  eating  and 
talking,  riding  and  walking,  dancing  and  sliding, 
drinking  and  sleeping,  with  our  distinguished  guest, 
and  he  never  knew  of  the  existence  of  one  of  us. 
Is  it  wonderful  that  we  are  delighted  to  see  him, 
and  to  return  in  a  measure  his  unbounded  hospitali 
ties  ?  Boz  a  stranger  !  Well  may  we  again  ex 
claim,  with  Sir  John  Falstaff,  "  D'  ye  think  we 
did  n't  know  ye  ?  We  knew  ye  as  well  as  him 
that  made  ye." 

But  a  jovial  fellow  is  not  always  the  dearest 
friend  ;  and  although  the  pleasure  of  his  society 
would  always  recommend  the  great  progenitor  of 
Dick  Swiveller,  "  the  perpetual  grand  of  the  glorious 
Appollers,"  in  a  scene  like  this  j  yet  the  respect 
of  grave  doctors  and  of  fair  ladies  prove  that  there 
are  higher  qualities  than  those  of  a  pleasant  com 
panion  to  recommend  and  attach  them  to  our  dis 
tinguished  guest.  What  is  the  charm  that  unites 
so  many  suffrages  ?  It  is  that  in  the  lightest  hours, 
and  in  the  most  degraded  scenes  which  he  has  por 
trayed,  there  has  been  a  reforming  object  and  moral 
tone,  not  formally  thrust  forth  in  the  canvass,  but 
infused  into  the  spirit  of  the  picture,  with  those 
natural  touches  whose  contemplation  never  tires. 

With  what  power  of  delineation  have  the  abuses 


A  WELCOME    TO    CHARLES    DICKENS.  327 

of  public  institutions  been  portrayed  !  How  have 
the  poor-house,  the  jail,  the  police  courts  of  justice, 
passed  before  his  magic  mirror,  and  displayed 
to  us  the  petty  tyranny  of  the  low-minded  official, 
from  the  magnificent  Mr.  Bumble,  and  the  hard 
hearted  Mr.  Roker,  to  the  authoritative  Justice 
Fang,  the  positive  Judge  Starleigh  !  And  as  we 
contemplated  them,  how  have  we  realized  the 
time-worn  evils  of  other  systems,  and  how  has 
our  eyesight  been  sharpened  to  detect  the  defici 
encies  and  malpractices  of  our  own. 

The  genius  of  chivalry  was  exorcised  by  the 
pen  of  Cervantes.  He  clothed  it  with  the  name 
and  image  of  Don  Quixotte,  and  ridicule  destroyed 
what  argument  could  not  reach. 

This  power  belongs  in  an  eminent  degree  to 
some  of  the  personifications  of  our  guest.  A  short 
time  ago,  it  was  discovered  that  a  petty  tyrant  had 
abused  the  children  who  had  been  committed  to 
his  care.  No  long  and  elaborate  discussion  was 
needed  to  arouse  the  public  mind.  He  was  pro 
nounced  a  perfect  Squeers,  and  eloquence  could  go 
no  further.  Happy  is  he  who  can  add  a  pleasure 
to  the  hours  of  childhood ;  but  far  happier  he 
who,  by  fixing  the  attention  of  the  world,  can 
protect  or  deliver  them  from  their  secret  suffer 
ings. 

But  it  is  not  only  as  a  portrayer  of  public  wrongs 
that  we  are  indebted  to  our  friend.  What  reflect 
ing  mind  can  contemplate  some  of  those  characters 
without  being  made  more  kind-hearted  and  chari- 


328  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

table  ?  Descend  with  him  into  the  very  sink  of 
vice ;  contemplate  the  mistress  of  a  robber,  the  vic 
tim  of  a  murderer,  —  disgraced  without,  polluted 
within,  —  and  yet,  when  in  better  moments  her 
natural  kindness  breaks  through  the  cloud  ;  when 
she  tells  you  that  no  word  of  counsel,  no  tone  of 
moral  teaching,  ever  fell  upon  her  ear ;  when  she 
looks  forward  from  a  life  of  misery  to  a  death  by 
suicide  j  you  cannot  but  feel  that  there  is  no  con 
dition  so  degraded  as  not  to  be  visited  by  gleams 
of  a  higher  nature,  and  rejoice  that  He  alone 
will  judge  the  sin  who  knows  the  temptation. 
Again,  how  strongly  are  the  happiness  of  virtue, 
and  the  misery  of  vice,  contrasted.  The  morning 
scene  of  Sir  Mulberry  Hawk  and  his  pupil,  brings 
out  in  strong  relief  the  night  scene  of  Kit  Nubbles 
and  his  mother.  The  one  in  affluence  and  splen 
dor,  trying  to  find  an  easier  position  for  his  aching 
head ;  surrounded  with  means,  and  trophies  of  de 
bauchery,  and  thinking  "  there  would  be  nothing 
so  snug  and  comfortable  as  to  die  at  once."  The 
other  in  the  poorest  room,  earning  a  precarious 
subsistence  by  her  labors  at  the  wash-tub ;  ugly, 
and  ignorant,  and  vulgar,  and  poor,  with  one  child 
in  the  cradle,  and  the  other  in  the  clothes  basket, 
"  whose  great  round  eyes  emphatically  declared 
that  he  never  meant  to  go  to  sleep  any  more,  and 
thus  opened  a  cheerful  prospect  to  his  relations 
and  friends ; "  and  yet  in  this  situation,  with  only 
the  comfort  that  cleanliness  and  order  could  impart, 
kindness  of  heart,  and  the  determination  to  be  talk- 


A  WELCOME    TO    CHARLES    DICKENS.  329 

ative  and  agreeable,  throws  a  halo  round  the  scene, 
and  as  we  contemplate  it  we  cannot  but  feel  that  Kit 
Nubbles  has  attained  to  the  summit  of  philosophy, 
when  he  discovered  "there  was  nothing  in  the  way 
in  which  he  was  made,  that  called  upon  him  to  be  a 
snivelling,  solemn,  whispering  chap,  sneaking  about 
as  if  he  could  'nt  help  it,  and  expressing  himself  in 
a  most  unpleasant  snuffle  ;  but  that  it  was  as  natu 
ral  for  him  to  laugh,  as  it  was  for  a  sheep  to  bleat, 
a  pig  to  grunt,  or  a  bird  to  sing."  Or,  take  another 
example,  when  wealth  is  attained,  though  by  dif 
ferent  means,  and  for  different  purposes.  Ralph 
Nickleby  and  Arthur  Gride  are  industrious  and  suc 
cessful  ;  like  the  vulture,  they  are  ever  soaring  over 
the  field,  that  they  may  pounce  on  the  weak  and 
unprotected.  Their  constant  employment  is  grind 
ing  the  poor,  and  preying  upon  the  rich.  What  is 
the  result  ?  Their  homes  are  cold  and  cheerless  ; 
the  blessing  of  him,  that  is  ready  to  perish,  comes 
not  to  them;  and  they  live  in  wretchedness,  to  die 
in  misery.  What  a  contrast  have  we  in  the  glori 
ous  old  twins,  brother  Charles  and  brother  Ned. 
They  have  never  been  to  school,  they  eat  with 
their  knives  (as  the  Yankees  are  said  to  do),  and 
yet  how  they  illustrate  the  truth,  that  it  is  better 
to  give  than  to  receive  !  They  acquire  their  wealth 
in  the  honorable  pursuits  of  business.  They  ex 
pend  it  to  promote  the  happiness  of  every  one 
within  their  sphere,  and  their  cheerful  days  and 
tranquil  nights,  show  that  wealth  is  a  blessing,  or 


330  .  THE    BOSTON   BOOK. 

a  curse,  as  it  ministers  to  the  higher  or  lower 
propensities  of  our  nature. 

"  He  that  hath  light  within  his  own  clear  breast, 
May  sit  i'  the  centre  and  enjoy  bright  day  ; 
But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul,  and  foul  thoughts, 
Benighted  walks,  under  the  mid-day  sun ; 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon." 

Such  men  are  powerful  preachers  of  the  truth, 
that  universal  benevolence  is  the  true  panacea  of 
life ;  and  although  it  was  a  pleasant  fiction  of 
brother  Charles,  "  that  Tim  Linkinwater  was  born 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  and  was  gradually 
coming  down  to  five-and-twenty,"  yet  he  who 
habitually  cultivates  such  a  sentiment,  will,  as 
years  roll  by,  attain  more  and  more  to  the  spirit 
of  a  little  child  ;  and  the  hour  will  come,  when 
that  principle  shall  conduct  the  possessor  to  immor 
tal  happiness  and  eternal  youth. 

If,  then,  our  guest  is  called  upon  to  state  what 
are 

"  The  drugs,  the  charms, 
The  conjuration,  and  the  mighty  magic 
He  's  won  our  daughters  with," 

well  might  he  reply,  that  in  endeavoring  to  relieve 
the  oppressed,  to  elevate  the  poor,  and  to  instruct 
and  edify  those  of  a  happier  condition,  he  had  only 
"held  the  mirror  up  to  Nature,  to  show  virtue  her 
own  form,  scorn  her  own  image."  That  "this  only 
was  the  witchcraft  he  had  used  ;  "  and,  did  he  need 


A  WELCOME    TO    CHARLES    DICKENS.  331 

proof  of  this,  there  are  many  fair  girls  on  both  sides 
of  the  water,  who,  though  they  might  not  repeat 
the  whole  of  Desdemona's  speech  to  a  married  man, 
yet  could  each  tell  him, 

"  That  if  he  had  a  friend,  that  loved  her, 

He  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  his  stories, 
And  that  would  win  her." 

I  would,  gentlemen,  it  were  in  my  power  to 
present,  as  on  the  mirror  in  the  Arabian  tale,  the 
various  scenes  in  our  extended  country,  where  the 
master-mind  of  our  guest  is  at  this  moment  acting. 
In  the  empty  school-room,  the  boy  at  his  evening 
task  has  dropped  his  grammar,  that  he  may  roam 
with  Oliver  or  Nell.  The  traveller  has  forgotten 
the  fumes  of  the  crowded  steamboat,  and  is  far  off 
with  our  guest,  among  the  green  valleys  and  hoary 
hills  of  old  England.  The  trapper,  beyond  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  has  left  his  lonely  tent,  and  is 
unroofing  the  houses  in  London  with  the  more  than 
Mephistophiles  at  my  elbow.  And,  perhaps,  in  some 
well  lighted  hall,  the  unbidden  tear  steals  from  the 
father's  eye,  as  the  exquisite  sketch  of  the  poor 
schoolmaster  and  his  little  scholar  brings  back  the 
form  of  that  gifted  boy,  whose  "little  hand " 
worked  its  wonders  under  his  guidance,  and  who, 
in  the  dawning  of  intellect  and  warm  affections, 
was  summoned  from  the  school-room  and  the  play 
ground  for  ever.  Or  to  some  bereaved  mother, 
the  tender  sympathies  and  womanly  devotion,  the 
touching  purity  of  little  Nell,  may  call  up  the  form 


332  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

where  dwelt  that  harmonious  soul,  which,  uniting 
in  itself  God's  best  gifts,  for  a  short  space  shed  its 
celestial  light  upon  her  household,  and  then,  van 
ishing,  "turned  all  hope  into  memory." 

But  it  is  not  to  scenes  like  these,  that  I  would 
now  recall  you.  I  would  that  my  voice  could  reach 
the  ear  of  every  admirer  of  our  guest  throughout 
the  land,  that  with  us  they  might  welcome  him,  on 
this  his  first  public  appearance  to  our  shores.  Like 
the  rushing  of  many  waters,  the  response  would 
come  to  us  from  the  bleak  hills  of  Canada,  from 
the  savannas  of  the  South,  from  the  prairies  of  the 
West,  uniting,  in  an  "earthquake  voice,"  in  the 
cheers  with  which  we  welcome  CHARLES  DICKENS 
to  this  new  world. 


ON  THE  COMPLETION  OF  THE  MONUMENT 

AT   CONCORD,  APRIL,  1836. 


BY    R.    W.    EMERSON. 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone, 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 
To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 

Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


THE   SUCCESSFUL   SCHOLAR. 


BY    GEORGE    PUTNAM. 

WE  are  often  told  from  abroad,  in  terms  not 
always  agreeable,  that  our  literary  training  in  this 
country  is  very  defective  j  that  a  high  degree  of 
intellectual  cultivation  is  not  to  be  expected  from 
our  systems  of  education,  and  seldom  proceeds  from 
them.  All  this  may  be  true.  But  our  greatest 
want  lies  not  there.  The  want  of  our  educated 
and  able  men,  is  not  so  much  a  higher  degree  of 
intellectual  cultivation ;  that  is  desirable,  no  doubt, 
yet  not  that  primarily,  not  that  first,  or  most,  —  but 
principle,  and  character,  to  impart  wise  direction, 
and  beneficent  power,  to  the  culture  and  ability 
which  they  have.  We  have  scholars,  we  have 
strong  men,  eloquent  men,  men  richly  furnished, 
and  trained  to  a  high  mastery  and  use  of  noble 
gifts ;  but  how  inadequate  a  proportion,  I  had  al 
most  said  how  few  of  them,  have  that  purity  of 
life,  and  loftiness  of  purpose,  which  win  confidence 
to  them,  and  make  them  the  lights  in  our  sky,  and 
the  towers  of  strength  on  our  borders,  which  they 
are  commissioned  to  be  if  they  would.  It  is  sad, 


THE    SUCCESSFUL    SCHOLAR.  335 

that  the  great  intellect  should  come  short  of  making 
a  great  man,  and  so  be  shorn  of  its  glory.  It  is 
sad,  that  our  affection  and  respect  cannot  oftener 
go  with  our  admiration.  It  is  a  sad  sight,  to  look 
upon  the  man  of  high  endowments,  a  child  of  the 
muses,  on  whom  every  god  of  Olympus  has  smiled 
and  bestowed  gifts,  whom  we  would  lean  upon  and 
look  to  for  wise  guidance,  and  the  inspirations  that 
would  lift  us  to  generous  aims,  and  move  us  to 
noble  deeds  and  lead  the  way,  whom  we  would 
that  we  might  trust  as  the  pole-star,  and  follow  as 
the  sun,  and  almost  swear  by,  —  it  seems  so  fit  and 
so  possible  that  it  might  be  so,  and  so  blessed  a 
thing  if  it  might,  —  it  is  sad,  I  say,  that  it  cannot 
be,  as  so  often  it  cannot.  And  why  can  it  not  be  ? 
It  is  not  from  defects  in  merely  intellectual  training 
or  attainment,  but  from  the  overweening  confidence 
he  has  placed  in  these.  He  has  valued  himself 
upon  these  only.  He  has  felt  himself,  through 
these,  great  enough  to  put  aside  the  gentle  wisdom 
he  imbibed  at  a  mother's  knee.  He  has  forgotten 
the  time,  for  it  is  likely  there  was  a  time,  when 
"his  heart  in  its  simplicity  and  purity  conversed 
with  itself,  and  drew  its  desires  from  its  own  better 
nature."  He  comes  to  deem  intellect  the  master 
element  that  makes  the  man.  Learning,  eloquence, 
and  power  and  skill  in  using  them,  these  things  he 
vainly  thinks  must  insure  the  true  prizes  of  exist 
ence.  He  goes  out  into  life,  and  the  brilliancy  of 
incipient  success,  and  the  hosannas  with  which  the 
first  dawn  of  genius  is  ever  greeted,  dazzle  him 


336  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

more  and  mislead  him  farther.  Temptation  comes, 
and  against  the  vices  that  taint  and  cripple  the  man 
he  is  not  provided,  nor  does  he  care  to  be.  His 
aspirations,  lofty  at  first,  learn  to  bend  down  and 
shape  themselves  to  the  low  issues  which  the  world 
presents.  And  then,  when  the  vulgar  ambitions  of 
the  day,  for  place,  popularity  and  preferment,  get 
possession  of  him,  then  the  door  is  wide  open  for 
all  the  rabble  rout  of  earthy  passions  and  petty 
aims.  He  sinks  into  the  sensualist,  the  schemer, 
or  the  demagogue.  He  crawls  and  shuffles,  or 
towers  and  blusters,  till  all  his  canting  of  truth  and 
principle,  of  honor  and  patriotism,  becomes  a  mock 
ery,  too  shallow  to  pass.  And  then,  where  is  the 
man  ?  Where  and  what  his  intellect  is,  we  know, 
but  where  is  the  man  1  Just  where  intellect,  trust 
ing  wholly  in  its  own  gifts  and  culture,  will  always 
put  a  man ;  on  an  eminence,  indeed,  to  be  seen  and 
heard  of  all,  but  a  thing  for  men  to  shake  their 
heads  at,  distrustfully  and  lamentingly.  Such  men 
are  to  be  found  in  all  histories  and  all  times  j  in 
our  own  history,  and  our  own  time.  And  they 
show,  that  the  defect  of  our  systems  of  education 
consists  not  so  much  in  the  low  standard  of  intel 
lectual  culture,  as  in  the  overlooking  of  that  other 
culture,  which  is  essential  to  its  completeness,  and 
to  the  fulfilment  even  of  its  own  issues,  the  attain 
ment  of  its  own  worthy  success. 

There  are  few  more  melancholy  contrasts  in 
life,  than  that  presented  by  the  ingenuous  young 
scholar,  just  passing  into  adolescence,  the  charm  of 


THE    SUCCESSFUL    SCHOLAR.  337 

boyhood  yet  lingering  about  him,  generous  thoughts 
and  high  aspirations  expanding  his  fair  brow,  the 
fire  of  genius  flashing  in  his  soft  eye,  and  the  sil 
very  tones  of  that  young,  honest  eloquence,  which 
sometimes,  I  know  not  how,  thrills  and  inspires  me 
more  than  all  other  human  speech  of  the  strongest 
or  wisest  —  promise,  promise,  written  on  his  glow 
ing  countenance,  in  letters  of  light,  read  of  all 
beholders  with  a  fond  interest,  and  read  by  the  pa 
rental  eye  and  heart  with  a  silent  ecstasy  of  loving 
and  exuberant  hope,  as  delicious  an  emotion  almost, 
I  should  think,  as  ever  visits  the  breast  of  mortals ; 
the  contrast,  I  say,  between  that  youth,  and  the 
same  being  as  he  is  when  a  few  years  have  flown, 
when  he  has  come,  I  say  not  to  ruin  and  infamy, 
(though  that  would  be  no  extravagant  imagination,) 
but  down  from  his  mount  of  transfiguration  to  the 
world's  low  level,  when  avarice  has  laid  its  gripe 
on  him,  and  the  common  lusts  of  political  and  social 
life  have  mastered  him,  and  the  cares  and  passions 
incident  to  vulgar  ambition  have  ploughed  their 
unvenerable  furrows  in  his  face,  and  all  that  young 
glory  is  departed.  "  How  is  the  gold  become  dim, 
and  the  most  fine  gold  changed." 

Oh,  it  is  not  a  small  thing  to  make  the  results  of 
age  correspond  in  beauty  and  dignity  to  the  promise 
of  youth.  It  is  no  ordinary  career  that  makes  the 
almond  blossoms  of  age  as  beautiful  and  as  desira 
ble  as  the  blooming  roses  of  youth,  and  the  drear 
autumn  of  life  as  lustrous  and  fair  as  the  sweet 
spring  time,  and  the  satisfactions  of  the  finished 
29 


338  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

race  as  dear  as  the  fresh  budding  hopes  that  bright 
ened  its  beginning.  Thai  is  success,  and  it  is  no 
light  thing  to  win  it.  Intellect  alone,  genius, 
learning,  eloquence,  skill,  industry,  ambition,  — 
these,  alone,  never  won  it  since  the  world  has 
stood,  and  never  will.  But  it  can  be  won.  Let 
principle,  character,  and  soul  accompany,  pervade, 
and  underline  these  great  intellectual  instrumen 
talities,  and  it  is  won  gloriously. 


MY  YOUNGEST. 


BY    DANIEL    SHARP. 


THEY  say  my  youngest  is  a  pet, 

And  has  too  much  her  way  ; 
It  can 't  be  so  I  think,  and  yet 

I  would  not  dare  say,  nay. 

For  if  my  memory  serve  me  right, 

And  truth  must  be  confessed, 
Each  youngest  that  has  blessed  my  sight 

Has  seemed  to  be  loved  best. 

Thus  one  by  one,  has  shared  the  love 

Of  a  fond  father's  heart, 
The  youngest  tenderer  thoughts  could  move, 

Than  those  who  had  the  start. 

The  oldest  was  to  me  most  dear, 

So  was  the  next  —  so  all ; 
The  youngest  came  my  age  to  cheer, 

On  her  my  love  did  fall. 


340  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

'T  is  not  that  she  is  loved  the  most, 
But  she  is  loved  the  last, 

The  youngest  may  my  fondness  boast, 
But  so  could  all  the  past. 

My  youngest,  then,  is  not  a  pet, 
More  than  each  child  before, 

I  think  so,  certainly  —  and  yet 
They  say  I  love  her  more. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  REV.  DR.  GREENWOOD. 


BY    NATHANIEL    L.    FROTHINGHAM. 

THE  pulpit  was  the  high  field  of  his  faithful 
labors  j  may  I  not  add,  of  his  holy  renown  ?  With 
what  a  meek  grace,  what  a  beautiful  simplicity, 
what  a  deep  seriousness  upon  his  expressive  face, 
he  stood  up  here  and  elsewhere  and  spoke  for  his 
Master  !  His  voice  was  richly  musical,  breathing 
out  as  from  the  soul  j  his  look  saintly  ;  his  manner 
fervidly  collected ;  his  word  full  of  calm  power. 
While  he  was  yet  a  young  man  his  aspect  seemed 
venerable.  It  grew  more  apostolic,  when  the  thin 
features  grew  thinner,  and  the  touch  of  time  was 
upon  the  locks  of  his  hair.  And  when  the  progress 
of  disease  had  enfeebled  and  altered  the  tones  of 
his  speech,  still  as  before,  and  more  than  ever,  they 
stole  the  attention  of  all  classes  of  minds,  and  went 
to  the  heart  of  every  hearer.  His  topics  were 
various,  and  each  was  treated  with  its  becoming 
method.  He  was  no  vague  writer.  He  did  not 
deal  in  abstractions  and  unaffecting  generalities. 
He  had  always  a  purpose  in  view,  and  he  moved 
distinctly  towards  it.  In  the  discussion  of  moral 
29* 


342  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

points  he  showed  a  nice  discernment.  He  qualified, 
as  he  went  on,  what  needed  to  be  set  in  its  just 
proportions.  There  was  no  indiscriminate  assertion. 
There  was  no  empty  declamation.  He  reasoned 
with  ability.  He  interpreted  with  good  sense.  He 
described  with  the  most  skilful  hand.  But  it  was 
in  tender  and  persuasive  representations  that  he 
most  excelled.  These  were  the  most  congenial 
with  the  cast  of  his  reflections,  and  one  must  be  of 
a  stern  nature  that  could  have  heard  him  at  such 
times  and  remained  unmoved.  His  style  of  dis 
course  was  called  a  plain  one  by  many.  But  this 
could  only  be  because  it  was  so  easily  understood. 
It  was  essentially  poetical ;  figurative  in  an  unusual 
degree  ;  and  though  always  chaste,  abounding  with 
the  highest  forms  of  eloquence.  It  was  suited  in 
each  several  instance  to  its  end.  It  was  never  out 
of  place.  It  was  the  more  clear,  and  not  the  less 
so,  for  its  ornament.  He  taught  the  more  effectu 
ally  by  the  exquisite  mastery  that  he  thus  displayed 
of  the  language  in  which  he  wrote.  His  "  Sermons 
to  Children,"  have  interested  many  other  young 
persons  than  they  to  whom  they  were  first  ad 
dressed.  His  "  Sermons  of  Consolation "  have 
gone  from  this  public  desk,  and  from  the  prepara 
tions  of  his  sick  room,  into  hundreds  of  sorrowful 
chambers,  assuaging  the  griefs  and  lifting  up  the 
souls  of  those  who  mourned  there  in  secret.  His 
mind,  or,  rather,  his  spirit,  unimpaired  by  the  decay 
of  the  body,  never  hurried  and  seldom  perturbed, 
accomplished  more  in  this  department  of  ministerial 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  REV.  DR.   GREENWOOD.          343 

labor  than  is  often  done  by  the  most  industrious, 
with  all  the  advantages  of  their  full  vigor. 

But,  most  of  the  things  of  which  I  have  been 
attempting  to  speak  are  now  only  memories.  That 
voice  is  silent.  That  countenance  we  shall  no  more 
see.  That  form,  after  its  long  languishing,  is  laid 
to  rest.  Never  was  a  tedious  decline  endured  with 
more  perfect  patience,  more  sustaining  trust.  His 
last  days  were  not  among  the  least  instructive  of 
his  life.  It  was  good  to  converse  with  his  prepared 
soul.  It  is  good  to  reflect  how  peacefully  it  passed 
away  to  God.  We  read  of  Stephen  the  first  mar 
tyr,  that  when  he  confronted  his  tormentors,  "his 
face  was  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an  angel." 
Shall  I  confess  that  the  passage  was  suggested  to 
me  more  than  once  when,  under  the  slower  martyr 
dom  of  the  malady  that  was  exhausting  his  life,  he 
seemed  to  be  already  looking  towards  heaven,  and 
inwardly  saying,  "  Receive  my  spirit  "  whenever  it 
shall  be  summoned  away ! 

"When  I  am  dead,  then  bury  me  in  the  sepul 
chre  wherein  the  man  of  God  is  buried."  The 
question  is  often  asked  with  some  curiosity,  or  some 
uneasiness,  Where  shall  I  be  buried  ?  An  idle 
question.  Of  what  consequence  where  ?  No  bane 
ful  thing  can  then  harm  us.  No  healing  thing  can 
then  help  us.  The  desert  is  no  exposure,  and  the 
carved  monument  is  no  defence.  Neighborhood  is 
of  no  importance  where  all  is  but  dust.  The  deep 
pits  of  the  sea  shall  give  up  their  dead  at  the  call 
of  God,  as  easily  as  the  shallowest  grave.  The 


344  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Roman  emperor,  entombed  in  the  air  upon  the 
column  of  his  victories,  was  not  so  near  to  the  skies 
as  the  poor  Christian  whom  he  had  permitted  to  be 
slain  for  the  Redeemer's  sake.  Of  what  conse 
quence  in  what  place,  when  the  fragrance  of  the 
earth,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the  music  of  the 
stream,  and  the  air  are  alike  unheeded?  But  let 
me  be  buried  in  the  moral  fellowship  of  righteous 
souls.  Let  me  be  buried  in  the  affections  of  them 
I  love.  Let  me  be  buried  in  the  memory  of  those 
who  will  honor  mine.  Let  me  be  buried  in  faith 
towards  the  heavenly  Father,  in  charity  with  the 
world,  and  in  hope  of  the  life  everlasting. 


LOVE   AND   FAME. 


BY  ANNA  H.  PHILLIPS. 


IT  had  passed  in  all  its  grandeur,  that  sounding  summer 

shower 

Had  paid  its  pearly  tribute  to  each  fair  expectant  flower, 
And  while  a  thousand  sparklers  danced  lightly  on  the  spray. 
Close  folded  to  a  rose-bud's  heart  one  tiny  rain-drop  lay. 


Throughout  each  fevered   petal  had  the  heaven-brought 

freshness  gone, 
They  had  mingled  dew  and  fragrance  till  their  veiy  souls 

were  one ; 
The  bud  its  love  in  perfume  breathed,  till  its  pure  and  starry 

guest 
Grew  glowing  as  the  life-hue  of  the  lips  it  fondly  pressed. 


He  dreamed  away  the  hours  with  her,  his  gentle  bride  and 

fair, 
No  thought  filled  his  young  spirit,  but  to  dwell  for  ever 

there, 

While  ever  bending  wake  fully,  the  bud  a  fond  watch  kept, 
For  fear  the  envious  zephyrs  might  steal  him  as  he  slept. 


346  THE    BOSTOX    BOOK. 

But  forth  from  out  his  tent  of  clouds,  in  burnished  armor 

bright, 
The  conquering  sun  came  proudly  in  the  glory  of  his 

might, 
And,  like  some  grand  enchanter,  resumed  his  wand  of 

power, 
And  shed  the  splendor  of  his  smile  on  lake,  and  tree,  and 

flower.  '' 


Then,  peering  through  the  shadowy  leaves,  the  rain-drop 

marked  on  high 

A  many-hued  triumphal  arch  span  all  the  eastern  sky  — 
He  saw  his  glittering  comrades  all  wing  their  joyous  flight, 
And  stand  —  a  glorious  brotherhood  —  to  form  that  bow  of 

light ! 


Aspiring  thoughts  his  spirit  thrilled  —  "  Oh,  let  me  join 

them,  love  ! 

I'll  set  thy  beauty's  impress  on  yon  bright  arch  above, 
And,  as  a  world's  admiring  gaze  is  raised  to  iris  fair, 
'T  will  deem  my  own  dear  rose-bud's  tint  the  loveliest  color 

there  !  " 


The  gentle  bud  released  her  clasp,  —  swift  as  a  thought  he 

flew, 
And  brightly  mid  that  glorious  band  he  soon  was  glowing 

too, — 
All  quivering  with  delight  to   feel  that  she,  his  rose-bud 

bride, 
Was  gazing,  with  a  swelling  heart,  on  this,  his  hour  of 

pride  ! 


LOVE    AND    FAME.  347 

But  the  shadowy  night  came  down  at  last  —  the  glittering 
bow  was  gone, 

One  little  hour  of  triumph  was  all  the  drop  had  won ; 

He  had  lost  the  warm  and  tender  glow,  his  distant  bud- 
love's  hue, 

And  he  sought  her  sadly  sorrowing  —  a  tear-dimmed  star 
of  dew. 


THE   LAST   SUPPER. 

A   HISTORY   OF   L1CNARDO   DA  VINCl'S   CELEBRATED    PAJNT1NG. 
BY    HANNAH    F.    LEE. 

ONE  day,  when  the  Passion  Week  had  just  begun, 
Lionardo  was  walking  in  the  beautiful  gardens  near 
Milan.  His  mind  was  pondering  on  the  subject  of 
his  painting.  The  spring  had  already  awaked  the 
young  blossoms  from  their  winter's  sleep,  and  the 
trees  and  hedges  were  crowned  with  the  fresh 
foliage  of  the  season.  "  I  will  paint  the  scene 
sacred  to  our  Lord ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  his  last 
supper  with  his  disciples ;  would  that  my  pencil 
were  equal  to  the  subject !  " 

The  sun  was  just  setting  as  he  returned  home, 
his  mind  filled  with  the  vastness  of  the  project. 
Unconsciously  he  arrived  at  the  cloister  of  the 
Dominicans ;  the  pealing  tones  of  the  organ  struck 
upon  his  ear,  while  the  lofty  roof  of  the  church 
resounded  with  the  chant  of  the  monks.  The 
solemn  sound  had  stilled  the  tumult  of  his  breast, 
and  his  heart  was  filled  with  gentle  and  deeply 
religious  emotions. 

"  O  thou,"  he  cried,  "  who  died  for  the  sins  of 


THE    LAST    SUPPER.      <  349 

the  human  nature,  which  is  so  sinful  and  passionate 
in  me  ;  how  shall  my  feeble  hand  portray  thy 
glory !  How  shall  I  paint  that  last  sorrowful  night 
when  the  apostles  gathered  around  thee  !  " 

As  he  dwelt  on  the  subject,  it  gradually  expanded 
to  his  mind ;  he  beheld  the  long  table,  and  the 
Saviour  in  the  midst  of  his  disciples,  the  last  rays 
of  evening  shining  on  his  head,  a  mild  radiance 
beaming  from  his  eyes,  when  he  exclaimed,  "  Verily. 
I  say  unto  you,  one  of  you  shall  betray  me." 

And  with  what  beauty  did  the  group  spring  to 
light  under  the  pencil  inspired  by  such  emotion  ! 
How  fresh  and  yet  how  soft  the  coloring  !  But  it 
was  indeed  an  arduous  task.  Spring  had  come 
round,  and  two  of  the  heads  yet  remained  un 
finished,  the  Saviour's  and  that  of  Judas ;  the  one, 
because  his  soul  trembled  to  approach  it ;  the  other, 
because  the  beautiful  purity  of  his  own  spirit  shrank 
in  horror  from  the  task  of  portraying  fitly  such  a 
visage. 

In  vain  Lionardo  sat  before  his  easel,  with  his 
pencil  in  his  hand,  and  prayed  for  divine  inspiration 
to  paint  the  Saviour  of  the  world.  His  touch  was 
cold  and  formal ;  where  was  the  heavenly  benevo 
lence  that  irradiated  his  face,  the  pitying  forgive 
ness  towards  the  apostle  who  he  knew  would  deny 
him,  the  glance  of  divine  sorrow  unmixed  with 
anger,  which  he  cast  upon  his  betrayer  ?  And  the 
contrast  of  the  traitor,  how  was  he  ever  to  portray 
it  worthily? 

30 


350  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

The  last  week  arrived,  and  the  heads  were  yet 
unfinished. 

"Dost  thou  know  the  conditions?"  exclaimed 
the  exulting  monk  ;  "  success  or  death  j  so  said  the 
Duke,  and  his  word  is  never  recalled." 

"  I  know  them  well,"  replied  Lionardo,  in  a 
despairing  tone. 

"  Then  hasten  on  thy  work,"  said  the  Domini 
can.  "Is  life  so  worthless  that  thou  canst  not 
afford  a  daub  of  thy  brush  to  save  it  ?  As  well 
might  the  mighty  discovery  of  painting  have  slum 
bered,  if  it  will  not  do  thee  this  slight  service. 
Come,  lend  me  thy  brush  ;  to-morrow  is  the  day  ; 
I  will  furnish  thee  with  a  head,  and  perhaps  it  may 
save  thine  own,"  fastening  upon  him  a  searching 
glance,  with  a  flashing  expression  of  conscious 
power  and  triumph. 

"  Ha,"  exclaimed  Lionardo,  "  I  thank  thee,  good 
Sir  Prior,  for  this  last  offer  ;  thou  hast  indeed 
inspired  me." 

He  hastened  to  the  refectory,  closed  and  secured 
the  door,  and  through  the  rest  of  that  day,  and  the 
whole  solitude  of  that  last  night,  sat  almost  without 
intermission  at  the  glorious  work  which  has  immor 
talized  him.  The  head  of  Judas  was  completed 
before  the  shades  of  night  came  on  ;  but  that  of 
the  Saviour  still  remained.  There  was  the  beauti 
ful  oval,  the  locks  parted  on  the  forehead,  but  all 
else  of  the  face  was  a  blank.  He  felt  the  task 
beyond  his  power  ;  yet  his  generous  spirit  would 


THE    LAST    SUPPER.  351 

not  profane  his  own  ideal,  nor  degrade  his  art,  by 
an  unworthy  performance. 

The  last  rays  of  the  sun  were  setting ;  he  turned 
towards  the  west.  "  Andrea,"  he  cried,  "now,  in 
this  hour  of  my  last  extremity  of  despair,  let  my 
voice  reach  thee  among  the  shades  of  the  palm- 
trees  of  paradise !  " 

As  by  a  sudden  inspiration,  confidence  took  pos 
session  of  his  mind ;  celestial  images  floated  before 
his  imagination ;  the  pealing  roof  seemed  to  ring 
with  hosannas  ;  and,  in  the  vacant  space,  the  imagi 
nation  of  the  painter  beheld  the  countenance,  the 
divine  countenance,  which  he  had  been  in  vain 
attempting  to  portray. 

Once  more  he  seizes  his  brush  ;  he  has  only  to 
follow  the  traits  impressed  forever  by  that  single 
vision-gleam  on  his  memory.  Now,  indeed,  the 
work  was  soon  completed. 

The  next  morning  Lionardo  did  not  make  his 
appearance,  nor  was  any  reply  returned  to  the 
applications  of  the  Prior  at  the  door :  it  was  the 
day  on  which  the  picture  was  to  be  exhibited,  and 
his  remorseless  enemy  exulted  in  the  belief,  that,  in 
his  despair,  he  had  sought  the  fate  of  the  Judas  he 
had  found  himself  incompetent  to  depict. 

At  length  the  hour  arrived,  and  the  Duke  Sforza, 
accompanied  by  the  principal  nobility  of  Milan, 
proceeded  in  state  to  the  Dominican  monastery, 
and  gave  orders  that  the  refectory  should  be  thrown 
open.  The  picture,  which  was  upon  the  wall  at 
one  end,  was  concealed  by  a  curtain  ;  and  the  artist 


352  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

stood  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  and  an  expression  of 
deep  dejection.  There  was  a  confused  murmur 
of  voices.  Curiosity  and  eager  expectation  were 
expressed  in  every  countenance  but  that  of  the 
Prior's ;  on  his  sat  triumphant  revenge ;  the  pic 
ture,  he  was  confident,  was  unfinished  in  the  most 
important  figures,  as  he  had  himself  seen  it  so  on 
the  preceding  day. 

"  Let  the  curtain  be  withdrawn,"  said  the  Duke. 

Lionardo  moved  not ;  the  deep  emotion  of  the 
artist  rendered  him  powerless. 

The  Dominican,  unable  to  comprehend  such 
feelings,  was  confirmed  in  the  belief  that  the  with 
drawing  of  the  curtain  would  be  the  death-warrant 
of  Lionardo ;  he  hastily  seized  the  string,  and,  by 
a  sudden  pull,  the  curtain  opened,  and  the  Last 
Supper  of  Lionardo  da  Yinci  stood  revealed  to  the 
world. 

Not  a  sound,  for  a  few  moments,  broke  the  still 
ness  that  prevailed  :  at  length,  murmurs  of  applause 
were  heard,  increasing  as  the  influence  of  the  glo 
rious  work  fell  fuller  upon  the  enthusiastic  minds 
of  the  Italians,  to  raptures.  The  Duke  arose  and 
stood  before  Lionardo.  "Well,  noble  Florentine, 
hast  thou  atoned  for  thy  fault ;  I  am  proud  to  for 
give  thee  all.  On,  on,  to  glory,  to  immortality  ; 
high  rewards  shall  be  thine.  But  why,  holy  fa 
ther,"  said  he  to  the  Prior,  who  still  stood  motion 
less  and  pale,  before  the  picture,  "  why  stand  you 
speechless  there?  see  you  not  how  nobly  he  has 
redeemed  his  pledge  ?  " 


THE    LAST    SUPPER.  353 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  Dominican, 
then  to  the  figure  of  Judas.  Suddenly  they  ex 
claimed,  with  one  voice,  "  It  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  " 

The  brothers  and  monks  of  the  cloister,  who 
detested  the  Prior,  repeated,  "  Yes,  it  is  he  ;  the 
Judas  Iscariot  who  betrayed  his  Master  ! " 

After  the  first  surprise  was  over,  suppressed 
laughter  was  heard.  Pale  with  rage,  the  Domini 
can  retreated  behind  the  crowd,  and  made  his 
escape  to  his  cell,  with  the  emotions  of  a  demon 
quelled  before  the  radiant  power  of  an  angel's 
divinity,  and  the  reflection  that  henceforth  he  must 
go  down  to  posterity  as  a  second  Judas  !  The 
resemblance  was  perfect. 

And  where  now  was  Lionardo  da  Vinci  —  he 
who  stood  conspicuous  among  the  nobles  of  the 
land  —  he  whose  might  of  genius  had  cast  high 
birth  and  worldly  honors  into  obscurity  ?  Now, 
surely,  was  the  hour  of  his  triumph  ! 

Alas,  no !  he  stood  humbled  and  depressed ;  bit 
ter  tears  bedewed  his  cheeks ;  and  when  the  cry 
was  repeated  again  and  again,  "It  is  the  Prior  !  " 
he  hastily  quitted  the  presence  of  the  Duke,  and  in 
the  solitude  of  his  own  apartment,  on  his  knees,  in 
an  agony  of  repentance,  "  O  Andrea,  my  master !  " 
he  exclaimed,  "how  have  I  sinned  against  thy 
memory,  our  art,  and  my  own  soul !  I  have  sinned, 
I  have  sinned  !  It  was  a  sacrilege  ;  in  the  same 
hour  in  which  thou  didst  answer  my  prayer  with 
the  blessed  inspiration  of  the  vision  of  the  Re 
deemer  !  I  am  unworthy  of  thy  love,  of  thy  divine 
30* 


354  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

art,  and  of  my  own  respect.  '  Revenge  can  have 
no  part  in  a  great  mind,'  was  thy  last  precept ;  how 
much  better  didst  thou  know  me  than  I  knew 
myself!  Strengthen  and  guide,  henceforth,  my 
weak  and  sinful  nature." 

Such  were  the  emotions  of  the  artist,  while  all 
Milan  and  Italy  rang  with  the  fame  of  the  work 
which  he  himself  so  bitterly  repented.  All  flocked 
to  see  it,  and  his  renown  was  at  its  zenith.  He 
shunned  the  applause,  and  in  a  humble  spirit 
devoted  himself  to  the  pursuit  of  a  nobler  triumph 
than  he  had  already  achieved, —  the  triumph  over 
himself. 

This  is  the  history  of  that  celebrated  painting, 
the  Last  Supper  of  Lionardo  da  Yinci,  which  is 
familiar  to  all,  from  the  innumerable  copies  dis 
tributed  through  every  civilized  country,  by  the 
pencil  and  the  burin.  It  is  commonly  understood 
to  be  a  fresco ;  but  it  is  not.  It  was  painted  on 
the  dry  plastering,  with  the  use  of  distilled  oils,  in 
a  manner  invented  by  Lionardo.  This  circumstance 
has  caused  its  decay.  It  is  still  in  the  refectory 
of  the  Dominican  convent,  at  Milan ;  though,  hav 
ing  sustained  much  injury  from  ill  usage,  especially 
when  the  convent  was  occupied  by  French  troops 
at  the  close  of  the  last  century,  it  gives  the  travel 
ler  now  but  an  indistinct  idea  of  its  original  glory. 


A   WINTER   MORNING. 


BY    ANDREWS    NORTON. 


THE  keen,  clear  air  —  the  splendid  sight  — 

We  waken  to  a  world  of  ice ; 
Where  all  things  are  enshrined  in  light, 

As  by  some  genie's  quaint  device. 

'T  is  winter's  jubilee  —  this  day 

His  stores  their  countless  treasures  yield  ; 
See  how  the  diamond  glances  play, 

In  ceaseless  blaze,  from  tree  and  field. 

The  cold,  bare  spot,  where  late  we  ranged, 
The  naked  woods,  are  seen  no  more  ; 

This  earth  to  fairy  land  is  changed, 
With  glittering  silver  sheeted  o'er. 

A  shower  of  gems  is  strew'd  around  ; 

The  flowers  of  winter,  rich  and  rare  ; 
Rubies  and  sapphires  deck  the  ground, 

The  topaz,  emerald,  all  are  there. 


356  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

The  morning  sun,  with  cloudless  rays, 

His  powerless  splendor  round  us  streams ; 

From  crusted  boughs,  and  twinkling  sprays, 
Fly  back  unloosed  the  rainbow  beams. 

With  more  than  summer  beauty  fair, 
The  trees  in  winter's  garb  are  shown  ; 

What  a  rich  halo  melts  in  air, 

Around  their  crystal  branches  thrown  ! 

And  yesterday  —  how  changed  the  view 
From  what  then  charm'd  us  :  when  the  sky 

Hung,  with  its  dim  and  watery  hue, 
O'er  all  the  soft,  still  prospect  nigh. 

The  distant  groves,  array'd  in  white, 
Might  then  like  things  unreal  seem, 

Just  shown  a  while  in  silvery  light, 
The  fictions  of  a  poet's  dream ; 

Like  shadowy  groves  upon  that  shore 
O'er  which  Elysium's  twilight  lay, 

By  bards  and  sages  feign'd  of  yore, 

Ere  broke  on  earth  heaven's  brighter  day. 

O  GOD  of  Nature  !  with  what  might 
Of  beauty,  shower'd  on  all  below, 

Thy  guiding  power  would  lead  aright 
Earth's  wanderer  all  thy  love  to  know ! 


FOOTPRINTS   OF   ANGELS. 


BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

IT  was  Sunday  morning ;  and  the  church  bells 
were  all  ringing  together.  From  the  neighboring 
villages  came  the  solemn,  joyful  sounds,  floating 
through  the  sunny  air,  mellow  and  faint  and  low, 
all  mingling  into  one  harmonious  chime,  like  the 
sound  of  some  distant  organ  in  heaven.  Anon  they 
ceased ;  and  the  woods,  and  the  clouds,  and  the 
whole  village,  and  the  very  air  itself,  seemed  to 
pray ;  so  silent  was  it  every  where. 

Two  venerable  old  men  —  high  priests  and  patri 
archs  were  they  in  the  land  —  went  up  the  pulpit 
stairs,  as  Moses  and  Aaron  went  up  Mount  Hor,  in 
the  sight  of  all  the  congregation  ;  for  the  pulpit 
stairs  were  in  front,  and  very  high. 

Paul  Flemming  will  never  forget  the  sermon  he 
heard  that  day,  —  no,  not  even  if  he  should 
live  to  be  as  old  as  he  who  preached  it.  The 
text  was,  "  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."  It 
was  meant  to  console  the  pious,  poor  widow,  who 
sat  right  below  him  at  the  pulpit  stairs,  all  in  black, 
and  her  heart  breaking.  He  said  nothing  of  the 


358  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

terrors  of  death,  nor  of  the  gloom  of  the  narrow 
house ;  but,  looking  beyond  these  things,  as  mere 
circumstances  to  which  the  imagination  mainly 
gives  importance,  he  told  his  hearers  of  the  inno 
cence  of  childhood  upon  earth,  and  the  holiness  of 
childhood  in  heaven,  and  how  the  beautiful  Lord 
Jesus  was  once  a  little  child,  and  now  in  heaven 
the  spirits  of  little  children  walked  with'  him,  and 
gathered  flowers  in  the  fields  of  Paradise.  Good 
old  man  !  In  behalf  of  humanity,  I  thank  thee  for 
these  benignant  words  !  And  still  more  than  I,  the 
bereaved  mother  thanked  thee  ;  and  from  that  hour, 
though  she  wept  in  secret  for  her  child,  yet 

"  She  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again." 

After  the  sermon,  Paul  Flemming  walked  forth 
alone  into  the  churchyard.  There  was  no  one 
there,  save  a  little  boy,  who  was  fishing  with  a  pin 
hook  in  a  grave  half  full  of  water.  But  a  few 
moments  afterward,  through  the  arched  gateway 
under  the  belfry,  came  a  funeral  procession.  At  its 
head  walked  a  priest  in  white  surplice,  chanting. 
Peasants,  old  and  young,  followed  him,  with  burn 
ing  tapers  in  their  hands.  A  young  girl  carried  in 
her  arms  a  dead  child,  wrapped  in  its  little  winding- 
sheet.  The  grave  was  close  under  the  wall,  by  the 
church  door.  A  vase  of  holy  water  stood  beside  it. 
The  sexton  took  the  child  from  the  girl's  arms,  and 
put  it  into  a  coffin ;  and,  as  he  placed  it  in  the 
grave,  the  girl  held  over  it  a  cross  wreathed  with 


FOOTPRINTS    OF    ANGELS.  359 

roses,  and  the  priest  and  peasants  sang  a  funeral 
hymn.  When  this  was  over,  the  priest  sprinkled 
the  grave  and  the  crowd  with  holy  water ;  and 
then  they  all  went  into  the  church,  each  one  stop 
ping,  as  he  passed  the  grave,  to  throw  a  handful 
of  earth  into  it,  and  sprinkle  it  with  the  hyssop. 

A  few  moments  afterwards,  the  voice  of  the 
priest  was  heard  saying  mass  in  the  church,  and 
Flemming  saw  the  toothless  old  sexton  treading, 
with  his  clouted  shoes,  the  fresh  earth  into  the 
grave  of  .the  little  child.  He  approached  him,  and 
asked  the  age  of  the  deceased.  The  sexton  leaned 
a  moment  on  his  spade,  and,  shrugging  his  shoul 
ders,  replied, 

"  Only  an  hour  or  two.  It  was  born  in  the 
night,  and  died  this  morning  early." 

"  A  brief  existence,"  said  Flemming.  "  The 
child  seems  to  have  been  born  only  to  be  buried 
and  have  its  name  recorded  on  a  wooden  tomb 
stone." 

The  sexton  went  on  with  his  work,  and  made 
no  reply.  Flemming  still  lingered  among  the  graves, 
gazing  with  wonder  at  the  strange  devices  by  which 
man  has  rendered  death  horrible  and  the  grave 
loathsome. 

In  the  temple  of  Juno  at  Alis,  Sleep  and  his 
twin  brother,  Death,  were  represented  as  children 
reposing  in  the  arms  of  Night.  On  various  funeral 
monuments  of  the  ancients  the  Genius  of  Death  is 
sculptured  as  a  beautiful  youth,  leaning  on  an 
inverted  torch,  in  the  attitude  of  repose,  his  wings 


360  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

folded  and  his  feet  crossed.  In  such  peaceful  and 
attractive  forms  did  the  imagination  of  ancient  poets 
and  sculptors  represent  death.  And  these  men  were 
men  in  whose  souls  the  religion  of  Nature  was  like 
the  light  of  stars,  beautiful,  but  faint  and  cold ! 
Strange,  that,  in  later  days,  this  angel  of  God,  which 
leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand  into  the  "land  of  the 
great  departed,  into  the  silent  land,"  should  have 
been  transformed  into  a  monstrous  and  terrific 
thing  !  Such  is  the  spectral  rider  on  the  white 
horse ;  such  the  ghastly  skeleton  with  scythe  and 
hour-glass ;  the  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death ! 

One  of  the  most  popular  themes  of  poetry  and 
painting  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  continuing  down 
even  into  modern  times,  was  the  Dance  of  Death. 
In  almost  all  languages  is  it  written,  —  the  appari 
tion  of  the  grim  spectre,  putting  a  sudden  stop  to 
all  business,  and  leading  men  away  into  the 
"  remarkable  retirement  "  of  the  grave.  It  is  writ 
ten  in  an  ancient  Spanish  poem,  and  painted  on  a 
wooden  bridge  in  Switzerland.  The  designs  of 
Holbein  are  well  known.  The  most  striking  among 
them  is  that,  where,  from  a  group  of  children  sitting 
round  a  cottage  hearth,  Death  has  taken  one  by  the 
hand,  and  is  leading  it  out  of  the  door.  Quietly 
and  unresisting  goes  the  little  child,  and  in  its 
countenance  no  grief,  but  wonder  only  ;  while  the 
other  children  are  weeping  and  stretching  forth 
their  hands  in  vain  towards  their  departing  brother. 
It  is  a  beautiful  design,  in  all  save  the  skeleton. 
An  angel  had  been  better,  with  folded  wings,  and 
torch  inverted. 


FOOTPRINTS    OF     ANGELS.  361 

And  now  the  sun  was  growing  high  and  warm. 
A  little  chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to 
invite  Flemrning  to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful 
coolness.  He  went  in.  There  was  no  one  there. 
The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and  sculp 
ture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral 
tablets.  There  was  nothing  there  to  move  the 
heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in  that  hour  the  heart  of 
Flemming  was  weak,  weak  as  a  child's.  He 
bowed  his  stubborn  knees,  and  wept.  And,  O, 
how  many  disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter 
recollectkms,  how  much  of  wounded  pride  and 
unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears  through  which 
he  read,  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel  wall 
opposite,  this  singular  inscription  : 

"  Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  It  comes 
not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  Present.  •  It 
is  thine.  Go  forth  to  meet  the  shadowy  Future, 
without  fear,  and  with  a  manly  heart." 

It  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  unknown  tenant  of 
that  grave  had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken 
to  him  the  words  of  consolation,  which  his  soul 
needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet  spoken.  In  a 
moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still.  The 
stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart  ; 
death  was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in 
white.  He  stood  up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more 
bleared  with  tears  j  and,  looking  into  the  bright, 
morning  heaven,  he  said : 

"  I  will  be  strong  !  " 
31 


362  THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 

Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful 
longings  to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their 
departed  friends ;  and  as  they  gaze  upon  them, 
lying  there  so  peacefully  with  the  semblance  that 
they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall 
together,  and  are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then 
descend  for  the  last  time  into  the  great  tomb  of  the 
Past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold  once  more  the 
dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved ;  and  the  sweet 
breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would 
not  stay,  but  crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he 
gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust.  And  thus,  far- 
sounding,  he  heard  the  great  gate  of  the  Past  shut 
behind  him,  as  the  Divine  Poet  did  the  gate  of 
Paradise,  when  the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up 
the  Holy  Mountain ;  and  to  him  likewise  was  it 
forbidden  to  look  back. 

In  the  life  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden  transi 
tions  of  feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous.  At 
once,  as  if  some  magician  had  touched  the  heavens 
and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds  melt  into  the  air,  the 
wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm.  The 
causes  which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may 
have  been  long  at  work  within  us  ;  but  the  changes 
themselves  are  instantaneous,  and  apparently  with 
out  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with  Flemming  ; 
and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved  that  he  would 
no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circum 
stance  ;  no  longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the 
hands  of  Fate,  which  we  ourselves  do  make  or  mar. 


FOOTPRINTS    OF    ANGELS.  363 

He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean  on  others ; 
but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self-possessed ;  no 
longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait 
the  fulfilment  of  boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet 
desires ;  but  to  live  in  the  Present  wisely,  alike  for 
getful  of  the  Past,  and  careless  of  what  the  myste 
rious  Future  might  bring.  And  from  that  moment 
he  was  calm  and  strong  ;  he  was  reconciled  with 
himself.  His  thoughts  turned  to  his  distant  home 
beyond  the  sea.  An  indescribable  sweet  feeling 
rose  within  him. 

"  Thither  will  I  turn  my  wandering  footsteps," 
said  he,  "and  be  a  man  among  men,  and  no  longer 
a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be  mine  a 
life  of  action  and  reality !  I  will  work  in  my  own 
sphere,  nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is 
health  and  happiness.  This  alone  is  Life, — 

1  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend  ! ' 

Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this 
wise  resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple  result 
spring  only  from  the  long  and  intricate  process  of 
experience?  Alas!  it  is  not  till  time,  with  reckless 
hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the  Book  of 
Human  Life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from 
day  to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves 
which  remain  are  few  in  number,  and  to  remember, 
faintly  at  first,  and  then  more  clearly,  that  upon  the 
earlier  pages  of  that  book  was  written  a  story  of 


364 


THE    BOSTON    BOOK. 


happy  innocence,  which  he  would  fain  read  over 
again.  Then  comes  listless  irresolution,  and  the 
inevitable  inaction  of  despair ;  or  else  the  firm 
resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that  still  remain,  a 
more  noble  history  than  the  child's  story  with 
which  the  book  began." 


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YB   14216 


